


Desert Wings

by SparkBeat



Series: Desert Wings [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Barbarian!AU, Body Horror, Dubious Consent, Eggs, Forced Sterilization, Gore, Minor Character Death, Mutilation, Purging, Rape, Sort of? - Freeform, Sparklings, Torture, Violence, Vomiting, better safe than sorry, description of cleaning game, injuries to an oc child, larengectomy like wound, mate-napping, mentions of past rape, ring, surgery without consent, violation of the mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-03-31 11:38:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 73,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3976651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wing thought it was a standard assignment. A quick trip through the desert. Simple enough, right?</p><p>He didn't count on being kidnapped by savages, claimed as the mate of one of the tiniest nomads he'd ever laid optics on, and had his world turned upside down.</p><p>If he got out of this, he was never taking another 'standard assignment' again. The question is, will he really want to leave before this is over?</p><p>Rated for future chapters! Tags will be added as needed, and please let me know if something needs to be tagged that I've missed!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Swords of Destiny](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3715183) by [Kit_SummerIsle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit_SummerIsle/pseuds/Kit_SummerIsle). 



Rung squinted against the glare of the sun off the sand, sharp and bright even behind the heavy tint of the goggles he wore. Still no signs of the caravan the scouts had spoken of, only the shimmery not-real images created by the heat. He flared his plating a little; enjoying the little blast of slightly cooler fresh air the action brought to his protoform.

The paint on his faceplates itched, the heat causing it to crack over any angle or moving part. He reached up and absentmindedly scratched at his cheek flare while he stared at the unchanging horizon. What was taking so long? The last scout had said they were traveling at normal speeds, meaning they should have been here by now. Had they had somehow spotted signs of the ambush? Normally the citybots moved quickly through the deserts, not wanting to risk tangling with his people, but they didn’t know how to look for the hidden warriors.

There! A solid smudge between the shimmers. Automatically, one servo drifted to the staff slung across his back. He checked the holster, reassuring himself his weapon was in reach and ready.

The signal sounded, and without thought the sound propelled him forward, down the dune, staff in servo, and already he was rolling under the first guard’s swing, popping up inside his reach and catching him under the jaw with the end of his staff. The bot dropped back, energon spraying from a ruptured line. Rung was already on to the next, as more tribesmen swarmed the caravan from seemingly nowhere.

Absolute chaos erupted then. There weren’t many guards, but they were part of the group that called themselves ‘Knights’, and they were skilled with their blades. Nearby, one sent a nomad spinning to the ground, the edge of his sword leaving a deep gouge across the warriors face that sprayed energon. Rung ducked under the reach of a larger black and blue bot, hooked his pedes out from under him with one outswept leg, and lunged for the other knight.

They came together with a ringing of metal on metal, blade and staff connecting and shooting sparks. The knight was far larger, bearing down over Rung with a grimace, but Rung was used to that. With a move born of long practice, he stepped to the side and dropped his staff low. The other wasn’t prepared for that and fell forward at the sudden loss of support. Before he could get back to his pedes, Rung had struck a blow to the back of his neck, right below his helm, and the mech’s optics went dark as he slumped down in the sand.

The little orange fighter was already on to the next, coming together with his opponent with a ringing of weapons and then stepping away from the stunned body.

A flash of white and red caught his optic, and he was quick to dispatch his opponent so he could spin to see what it was that had distracted him. A knight, a mostly white flight frame with splashes of red and gold and grey, had stepped in front of one of the merchants. Twin energy blades were held confidently between himself and the looming shadow that was Blitzwing. One raised to block the downward swing of the larger mech's mace, the other darting in to bite at his shoulder and draw energon. Blitzwing stepped back snarling, and kicked out at the mech with one massive pede, ignoring the cut opened up his leg in retaliation.

Rung was distracted then by another attacker, and twisted low to the ground, sweeping the knight’s pedes out from under him with his staff. Driving his heel down on his neck, he turned back to find the little jet. The tides had turned, and it was quickly becoming apparent that the knight was loosing ground fast. He hadn't expected any differently. 

Blitzwing struck him hard across the face with his mace, and energon caught the sun from multiple cuts that opened up on his cheek and nasal ridge. Another strike, this one lower, caught him in the abdomen and had him doubling over, letting his energy blades dip. One last swing, and though the mech leaned back as if to dodge, it wasn’t enough, and a few of the barbs caught and ripped open what appeared to be a major fuel line if the spray of pink was anything to go off. He went down to his knees, weapons forgotten as his servos curled around his throat to stem the flow. The triple changer was already walking away, confident in the damage he inflicted.

  
The fighting around them had come to an end while he was distracted by the jet's fight, and now Rung tried to turn away. He really did. He’d taken a couple of steps towards the now unguarded transports, ready to start unloading the supplies they needed, when a pitiful groan of pain bubbled up out of the wounded mech’s vocalizer.

The mech must have been young, Rung figured, since he’d _never_ heard one of their kind make any sort of noise. Other than the long since abandoned ‘we don’t want to hurt you’. That was dropped to the wayside once they realized that maybe they didn’t want to hurt the nomads, but the nomads had no such qualms themselves.

A second, more panicked noise had him spinning on his heel and sprinting to the downed warrior’s side. More panic still in the jet's vocalizer when he saw the servos reaching for his neck. He reared back, fingers denting the plating around the wound from the strength of his grip.

“Easy…shhhh…” Rung might has well have been talking to a mechanimal for all the good it did him, but he continued making the soft noises as he pried the mech’s fingers away. He didn’t think it’d be good, and he wasn’t disappointed. His throat was slicked with pink, the fuel pooling in dips and divots in his collar fairing and rolling on down to his protoform. Nanites couldn’t stem the flow fast enough, and he was on the verge of bleed out.

“Lay back, there, that’s it.” Servos on the mech’s shoulders, he helped guide him to his back. His optics were dimming, his movements lethargic. It would be easy to leave him to the desert. To walk away and let the unfortunate spark empty his lines into the sand and destabilize for good. But there was something about the bot.

Not just the attractive form, the hips accentuated by white and red skirting panels and the elegant nacelles and pinions that even now were fluttering, albeit weakly. It wasn’t even the mech’s strong faceplate and pretty audial flares.

What it was, was the steady, graceful way he’d moved during his ill-fated fight with Blitzwing that had caught Rung’s optic. Now that beauty in movement was what had him digging a mesh patch out of one of his thigh compartments and pressing it down on the wound with force that brought a temporary light back to the mech’s optics.

A shadow crossed the white plating beneath him, and hovered while he worked, holding the patch with one servo and moping up the spilled fuel with his other.

“Not helping.” He rolled his optics, knowing that EM field. Without turning, he could tell that Whirl would shrug, and the shadow did just that.

“Half dead now.”

“ _Half_ dead, not dead. Can still fix.” He dug back into that same thigh compartment for a sticky pad, safe to use now that he’d gotten the surface relatively clean. Nothing worse than putting on a patch for it to fall off again.

“Maybe Ratchet can. But Ratch ain’t here. Kindest mercy a quick death.” With Whirl, one could never tell if that giddy tone was his default, or if he was truly just that excited about spilled energon.

“No!” Rung spun to face Whirl, crouching over the body beneath him and bearing his dentae in a snarl. Whirl stepped back, claws raised.

“Mine. I claim as mate.” He said slowly, watching the rotormech tilt his helm, very obviously working through possible responses in his processor.

Finally, “Ratchet back at camp, yea? Long way to go with city mech _half_ dead.”

Rung refused to let his shoulders slump at that reminder, stubbornly clinging to the tension that locked his limbs. He knew that. It was a long shot at best, but it was worth a try. It’d be nice to have a mate, someone to share his tent with, a warm frame to curl up with at night. Someone to talk to that wouldn’t scoff at his ‘overthinking’.

Whirl had disappeared during his little struggle with himself, and so he turned back to the nameless knight. Running through his options netted him very little in the way of useable ideas, save finding the mech some energon to help jumpstart his self-repair. He was so mired down in his thoughts he didn’t see Whirl coming back with an armload of debris.

When it clattered down beside him he jumped, plating clamped down tight to his protoform and reflexively curling pink stained fingers around his staff. Whirl was laughing, tapping his claw tips together. It wasn’t often he was able to sneak up on the smaller mech after all, why not enjoy the reaction? Rung gave him a confused look, gesturing to the pile of scrap metal.

“All the help you get, eyebrows. Use it to get him home, yea?”

It took the work of nearly a joor to put together a makeshift sled large enough to fit the mech, but there was a lot to be said for determination. And having a small torch in one of his compartments. That helped, too.

No mech in the tribe would help him, it was against the rules to aid in the act of mate-napping after all. But neither did they leave when they were finished with whatever tasks they had assigned to them.

While he worked, the transports were nearly emptied of their cargo. The dead, the city mechs and the one nomad alike, were drained of fuel and necessary parts, and the protoforms drug away from the area. Respects were given, and the bodies left for the mechanimals that would benefit from their loss. A final offering of sorts, to help sustain the animals that sustained them in life, to feed their brethren after, in a never-ending cycle.

Those mech that had survived the assault were drug under the shade of their transports, out of reach of the larger predators, and with just enough supplies left to help them get home once they awoke 

With the sled as finished as it was going to get, he hauled the mech into a sitting position. Propping him against the leftover debris, he went about the slow and careful work of trickling salvaged energon into his slack mouth. Autonomous function allowed the fuel to travel unimpeded down his intake, and once the shallow bowl he carried with him had been emptied he stowed it away and set about the task at servo.

He pushed and pulled the heavy mech onto the sled, mindful of the folded wings, and arranged him to be as comfortable as possible. His servos were bound together, and secured to a length of cable wrapped around his middle to keep him from rolling off should he come back online.

Satisfied with his work, he looped a piece of heavy duty cable salvaged from a transport around his shoulders, and fell in line with the rest of the warriors for the long trek home.


	2. Chapter 2

The walk was long and hard, pulling the sled behind him loaded down with his precious cargo. Rung was nothing if not determined, though, and continued to focus on just putting one pede in front of the other. The sand that allowed the sled to glide with relative ease sucked at his pedes with every step he took. Normally, being as light as he was, this wasn’t a problem. But the extra weight was dragging him down, sand sucking at him and making each step twice as hard as it should be.

Whirl kept him company for a while, walking along mostly in silence. It had been a welcome change from Blitzwing’s teasing.

“Can’t get mate without my help? Want I should start the hunt for you next time?” Rung had stayed silent, the best way he’d ever found to deal with some of the larger bots. Whirl, on the other hand, enjoyed tactics on the opposite end of the spectrum, and had pushed Blitzwing out of the way forcefully, taking up his spot next to Rung and managing a better glare without a faceplate than some bots could make with full articulation.

“My eyebrows time. Get away.” 

Blitzwing had just laughed, shaking his helm and picking up the pace to catch up with other bots further up in the procession. 

“Thanks, Whirl.”

The rotormech flapped his claws at him, antennae tucking down against the back of his helm.

“Don’t mention it, eyebrows.”

“I have a name.” He said, rehashing an ‘argument’ that they’d had countless times before.

“Also have eyebrows!” One sharp claw tip poked delicately at said feature, wiggling it up and down before Rung twisted his helm away. 

They fell into silence, enjoying each other’s company and the familiar sounds of the tribe in motion. 

Along the way, one of the scouts had come back talking about the tracks of a herd of turbodeer up ahead, and Whirl pranced away with a promise of bringing back something tasty for him. Rung smiled, appreciating the gesture. Whirl couldn’t feed the knight because he wasn’t tribe, and he was spoken for. But he could feed Rung, who was part of the tribe and couldn’t hunt at the moment. It was shaky logic, but he wasn’t going to argue. Whirl tried so hard sometimes to be nice; he didn’t have the spark to shut him down unless his ideas were up in the red zone of the Bad Idea gauge.

Once the hunters had turned away to follow the tracks, those that hadn’t joined up continued on to the camp. 

The first time the knight stirred, he only groaned and twisted his face to the side with coolant beading on his plating. The sun was at the highest point in the sky, so he wasn’t really surprised the mech was overheating. Laying flat on his back, doing nothing but absorbing heat? There wasn’t anything to be done about it except get him into the (non-existent) shade. He waited until overworked fans kicked into high gear, then took up the cable again and joined up with the group waiting a little ways ahead for him.

The second time though, the mech’s optics onlined, and a little whine escaped his vocalizer. Rung would never admit it if Whirl asked, but he nearly tripped over the cable in his haste to get to the mech’s side. 

Optics unfocused from pain, or heat, or a combination of both, tracked right over his face the first time. Panic/Pain/Confusion spiked his EM field, and his servos jerked against the rope around his waist. Rung put a servo over both of the mech’s, his other servo wiping away the coolant pooling in the hollows under his eyes and around his nasal ridge. 

“You’re okay.” He said, smiling at the other when his optics finally focused and locked on his face. The mech opened his mouth, but Rung shook his head and put one digit to his lips in the universal sign for ‘quiet’. 

“You’ve been injured, but I patched it the best I could. Please don’t stress it, and I’ll get our medic to look at it as soon as we get home, I promise!” The mech tugged at his bindings again, but the hazy film of pain already drowned the small bit of coherency in his optics, and they darkened to black again as his fans raced to dispel the heat in his frame.

“Slag.” His shoulders slumped, an ache forming in the back of his processor. He opened a forearm compartment and popped one of the pieces of gelled of energon into his mouth before picking the cable up again. The shaking in his limbs that warned of low fuel (in case he somehow managed to miss the bright red warnings flashing in the corner of his HUD) eased back when the melting fuel flooded his intake and rushed into his tank. 

He only had to make it a little farther, he reminded himself. The shadows of the tents had already come into view on the horizon, and they were steadily growing larger with each step he took. 

When they finally reached camp, he didn’t have the energy, or quite honestly the patience, to stand with the rest and accept the whole sparkedly sincere ‘welcome back’s that were happening. He walked right the through the crowd, sled gliding along at his heels, and headed for his own tent.

It was there he ran into his first problem. The sled was wider than the entrance. By more than a little bit. He’d seen others carrying their mates inside slung over their shoulders, or cradled in their arms, depending on the size differences, but there was no way he was going to be able to lift the knight, let alone carry him. 

Seeing no other option, Rung was just grateful the mech was unconscious and unable to witness the indignities he was subjected to out of the necessity to be moved. 

Covered in sand, with one of the floor coverings absolutely tangled around a bright red knee stabilizer and the joint hidden beneath, but he was out of the sun. His fans had already slowed just a tiny bit with the loss of direct competition. 

After making sure his servos were securely fastened still, Rung busied himself with cleaning the sand from the mech’s joints, and then straightened the floor mats and tidied the few things he had sitting out. He really wanted to make a good impression on the mech, and a tidy living space was a good start. Hopefully it would go at least a little ways towards overbalancing the fact that the mech would wake bound and injured. 

He was interrupted by the sound of something heavy hitting the sound right outside the tent, and poked his head out to see. 

Whirl stood with one pede planting on a dead deer’s side, claws on hips, and a laughing twitch to his shoulders and antennae. 

“Oh Whirl!” He sighed; smiling at the other bot and pulling out the tools he needed to siphon and store as much of the animal as possible.

“All for you, eyebrows.” 

“Thank you, Whirl!” A line was nicked, and Rung started the process of filling jars and setting them aside for storage. 

Whirl looked like he was about to say something, claws twisting together and antennae flicking back and forth, but a choked off shout from inside the tent distracted Rung, and he shoved the jars in his hands at Whirl.

He left the rotor sullenly pushing the jars through the sand with the tip of a claw, without remorse. 

His mate was awake.


	3. Chapter 3

Wing onlined to a prickly haze of heat in his sensor net. The allover clammy feeling of coolant on his frame was drowned out by the oppressive weight of _hot_ that made his plating feel twice as heavy as normal. And that was overshadowed by the knot of _burning_ in his throat.

 

The buzzing in his audials slowly faded away as he took stock, acknowledging the warnings on his HUD and swallowing back the rising tide of panic when he realized that his servos were tied. Irritated flexing of his flight panels revealed that they were also bound, with rough cable winding around the delicate appendages and dipping between the seams. While not necessarily _painful_ , they wedged between the joints, holding them open from the inside while simultaneously pressing them down around the cable from the outside. It was unpleasant, and disconcerting, and nausea rose in his tank at the thought of being forcefully ground bound. It mixed nicely with the sense of wrong that he couldn’t quite pin down.

 

Resetting his optics, which had refused to focus, he looked around him wearily, expecting to see the attackers from the caravan waiting for him to online. Thankfully he was alone in the little shelter, and started working at the cable binding his servos. The edge of a chest seemed promising, and he sawed at the cable for a few moments before placing that prickling sense of unease that had been plaguing him since he woke.

 

The channels on his back were empty, the clamps that normally connected his Greatsword to him twitching and grasping at empty space. A dismayed cry rose in his intake ahead of foul tasting half processed energon that he swallowed back.

 

The entrance to the shelter was pulled back, and a small orange bot came running in, skidding to a halt just in front of him with servos hovering in midair.

 

“Are you…are you okay?” He asked, and Wing was startled to hear such a refined voice from this bot covered in worn, smudged battle paint and…was that energon on his servos? He scooted back till he was pressed up against the chest he’d been using, optics wide.

 

The little bot looked down at his servos and moaned. Pulling a cloth from a compartment that opened up near his hip joint, he swiped at the mess staining his fingers and flushed.

 

“I’m so sorry. It’s not what it looks like, I promise! Or, I assume it’s not what it looks like, because surely you must think us savages, and that this is yours or another of your compatriots, but I assure you it’s not! A friend just brought back some energon and I spilled a bit.” Wing didn’t think the little bot was _lying_ , but he definitely wasn’t telling the whole truth.

 

The mech displayed his servos, and Wing immediately noticed the slight smudges staining the seams, but felt it unnecessary to mention. There were more pressing issues at servo.

 

“Please, the sword you removed from my back. Where is it?”

 

“Safely stored away. It looked very old, and well cared for. It is important to you?” It wasn’t the tone of one mech holding power over another, dangling the thing he wanted most just out of reach. Just the curiosity of a stranger.

 

“It is very old, yes. You could say I’m very attached to it.” Wing admitted with a self depreciating smile meant to charm his little captor.

 

“I thought so. Please don’t worry about it, it’s safe and cared for, along with your other blades, the ones you were using in the fight? They’re all together. And you’ll get them back, we don’t plan to keep them from you.” He was offered a sunny smile that dropped into a frown when Wing said nothing. What _could_ he say? Why would they give him his weapons back? It didn’t feel like a lie, but then, half truths were harder to detect, and words were easy to twist around. His processor was already running away with thoughts of what these people could do to ‘return’ his weapons to him without actually arming him, and the conclusions were grim. While he didn’t believe the tales used to scare wayward city bots into compliance, neither did he deny that all stories had seeds of truth to them.

 

His silence was taken as anger, it appeared, instead of the mess of confusion it actually was.

 

“I’m afraid I’ve not made a very good impression.” The bot fretted, wringing his servos and kneeling down in front of Wing with an apologetic look on his face.

 

“I’m injured and bound in a nomad camp. I don’t think there was a good way to make a first impression.” Wing smiled, hoping he kept the anger he was feeling off of his face. He needed to make a good impression of his own. To get this little mech to trust him, and maybe the cables would be removed, and he could fly out of here and find where they held Axe and the others that were with him.

 

“Oh! Oh, right. The cables. They’re temporary, just a precaution really. Once everything is settled to the tribes satisfaction, they’ll be removed without fuss.” The other bot had seemed taken aback by Wing’s congeniality, but adjusted quickly and offered a smile of his own.

 

“A precaution?” He titled his helm, studying the orange mech’s face as he spoke, “I just want to go home. We never had any intention of hurting your people. If you remove these bindings, and release the rest of my people, we’ll be on our way without fuss. I give you my word of that.”

 

The bot’s face fell as he spoke, and one servo reached out as if to touch him before dropping back to rest on a pale thigh plate.

 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t explain myself properly… You were the only one I brought back.” Wing’s smile dropped and the mech rushed to continue, both servos waving in the air between them. “Oh no! There were a few casualties, regrettably, there always are, but we made sure the deceased were treated with respect, and most survived. We left them with supplies to make it back to the cities, and made sure they were out of the way of predators. We aren’t monsters!” Faceplate flushed, the bot ended his explanation throwing his arms out to the sides as if to emphasize their kindness.

 

Wing wasn’t convinced, his own situation speaking to the contrary. But he schooled his features back into a soft smile.

 

“Then why do you have me bound in your camp?”

 

“As I said, temporarily.”

 

“You mentioned things needed to be settled. What did you mean by that? Ransoms won’t be paid for a knight , I’m afraid.”

 

“What? Wait, why would I ransom you off? Do other tribes do that sort of thing?” He seemed genuinely confused, and Wing couldn’t help but feel a little bit of relief. He didn’t seem to have any ill intentions towards him, and if there were no plans of ransom, he could get out of most anything else. The Circle trained it’s initiates to be selfless for the cause, to be willing to go so far as to self terminate before giving up anything that might jeopardize the safety of civilians. But it also taught that any opening could be exploited given patience and sound thought.

 

“Never mind that,” The bot shook off his concern, beaming at Wing with a genuine smile that under other circumstances would have swayed him, and continued, “No, no ransoms, no injuries, I swear you’re safe here. There’s no need for fear.”

 

“How can you promise my safety?” Wing couldn’t hide the disbelief in his voice, tilting his helm to the side.

 

“You’re my mate, why would anybody harm you?” It was said so matter-of-factly that Wing’s processor took a moment to catch up, and he found himself nodding along as if it made perfect sense.

 

Then it hit him.

 

“What?!”

 

“I’m sorry? Partner? Um…lover’s a poor choice, too many connotations we don’t at present meet the criteria for. Has mate really been lost from the Neocybex lexicon?” The mech didn’t look at all startled by Wing’s outburst. He rambled a bit, adjusting the goggles on his face that Wing had first mistaken for optics.

 

“No, I’m very clear on the meaning of the word ‘mate.’” Even Wing winced at the testiness in his voice, but pressed on, “How in the name of Primus can you honestly believe that I’m your _mate_?”

 

“I brought you back here. You were defeated in battle, and I brought you back to my home. That makes you my mate by tribal law.” He vented, dimming his optics and counting in his processor until he felt the calm of training return to him.

 

“I’m not part of your tribe. So the laws of the tribe can’t apply to me.” He tried to reason with the excited little mech.

 

“No, no, see… this made you tribe! You’re almost one of us!”

 

“Almost?” Wing felt the dread knot in the pit of his tank, a fairly good idea of where this conversation was headed.

 

“You’ll be part of the tribe, a full member, with your bindings removed, when we…” The bot actually _blushed_! Heat stained his cheeks, and he rubbed his nasal ridge, looking anywhere but at Wing.

 

“When we…?” Primus above! If he’d been a city bot, Wing would have jumped on the little guy, blushing so sweetly, and acting as if he had a crush on him. It would be absolutely _endearing_. He deleted that thought process ruthlessly, unwilling to explore that idea any further. This mech was a stranger, and one who very well could have just killed his friends, and innocent civilians.

 

“Interfacing is the traditional binding of two mechs in a partnership. It’s tribal law.” The mech’s voice had dropped nearly to a whisper, and he wouldn’t make optic contact anymore, staring at his intertwined servos instead. The heat on his faceplate was only growing, and Wing was sure that at any moment, those goggles would start fogging over.

 

“You expect me to interface with you?” He congratulated himself on the flat delivery he managed with that line. Inside? He was screaming. Ground bound, in enemy territory, and expected to interface against his will?

 

“I’d like you to, yes.” Wing’s EM field flared with uncontrollable _panic!!_ and he hurried to reassure him, “Oh! Not right now, no! You’re injured, you need time to heal without stressing your wounds!” The mech’s antennae twitched, flattening out behind his helm as he spoke, and the flush remained.

 

Wing’s processor was spinning; his mind a jumbled mess of incomplete lines of thought. They’d never mentioned anything like this in training. True, it had been observed that tribes sometimes kidnapped mechs from other tribes, but they’d never been clear on the purpose of the act. The same with the few city mechs that went missing. Those cases were few and far between, but those that disappeared never returned. It had always been assumed that they were dead, siphoned of their fuel and spare parts, and left for predators to devour.

 

But they’d been forced instead into this? Some farce of a union with mechs only a few steps removed from savages? At one point, Wing had defended the tribesmechs; insisted that they had the right to the same respect as any city mech, that their antiquated ways didn’t lessen them as a people. Others had scoffed, called him naïve and foolish.

 

Maybe they were right.

 

His captor reached out, one servo touching his shoulder. Barely a brush of contact, but he flinched away nonetheless, pinions flaring wide and flight panels quivering against their bonds. The other pulled back, a frown on his face, and stood. Here on his knees, Wing was only slightly shorter than the other bot, but it was a disadvantage he wasn’t willing to let stand so long as he could help it.

 

The mech caught him struggling to his feet, and pressed his servo firmly into his shoulder this time. As off balance as he was with both primary forms of stabilization hindered, he found himself landing on his aft with a yelp and staring up at the mech with wide optics that betrayed the spark deep…not fear. Not yet. But it was building to it.

 

But the mech didn’t take advantage of him; press the issue, as he’d thought he would. Instead, he withdrew his servo as soon as Wing was sitting steady, and reached down to attach a length of cord to that around his wrists. The other end was attached to the chest he’d been using earlier. The mech gave it a solid tug, and smiled a sad little smile.

 

“I’m afraid I’ve well and truly wrecked our first meeting, and I’m so sorry.” Wing snorted, tugging ineffectually at the tether. “You won’t be able to break that, and though I’m sure you won’t like to hear it, it’s for your own safety. You can’t wander the camp alone until your bindings are removed, and I need to go get the medic so your injuries can be looked over.”

 

He had backed away to the entrance as he spoke, withdrawing an EM field tinged with _regret/hurt/disappointment_. Turning back as he left, he offered up one last smile.

 

“My name is Rung, by the way. And I’m very glad to meet you.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Wing focused inward, optics powered off and field drawn up tight like a second set of armor.

 

Dead. The word kept bouncing around in his processor. The mech, Rung…he seemed regretful, but that didn’t make them any less dead. _He didn’t even know who to mourn._

 

His thoughts immediately turned to Axe. Axe, who had taught him nearly everything there was to learn about being a knight. Who flew with him when the sky’s pull was just too much, cutting helixes through the clouds above the city with an abandon he didn’t see often in any knight. Loosing him would be a blow that would echo through every knight in the citadel. He couldn’t be gone.

 

Fluid built up at the edges of his optics, but he ignored it, keeping his servos where they were in his lap.

 

He had no doubt that if any of the knights had fallen, so too had the civilians. Rung was very unclear on how many casualties were considered ‘a few’, but the civilians had outnumbered the knights three to one, and a few of them were full of the kind of false bravado that made a mech jump in front of a blaster to save another whether they needed the aid or not. Databurst. Freefall. They had both been so sure of themselves, so determined to prove that they didn’t need help, or an escort. And despite the fact that they both disliked his being there, they were still good mechs. The thought of their lifeless shells left in the desert was just as spark breaking as Axe.

 

He needed to focus. He couldn’t mourn the dead till he was sure they were dead. To do that, he needed to get out of here. If he could get free, he had no doubt that he could disable Rung. But Rung was an extremely small mech, not much of a challenge. Without his swords, he had no advantage over the larger, heavier builds that made up most nomadic camps.

 

He’d just have to be quicker than them. Many were fliers, but most had cumbersome kibble that would translate into equally bulky altmodes, whereas he was light and speedy. As much as it chafed him to turn tail and run, it was the practical thing to do.

 

But his Greatsword. Even now, his field felt all wrong, and his back too light. Without the length of the sword in that specially crafted spinal channel, even his posture suffered. He hadn’t realized how much he relied on it for something as simple as _posture._

 

He couldn’t just leave it behind. Forget the shame of returning to the citadel bereft of the relic entrusted to him by the circle! It had become such an intrinsic part of who he was as a mech; it was the equivalent of loosing a limb. The steady reassuring presence of the sword was sorely missed, and his channel clamps twitched again in sympathy.

 

So lost in thought, he didn’t hear the flap of the tent rustle open, or the pede-steps of the approaching figure until their shadow fall over him.

 

Onlining one optic to a dim amber glow, he looked first at the long lanky shadow in his lap, and followed it to the pedes of its owner.

 

A lightweight rotor mech stared down at him past twin canon barrels with a single, blazing optic set in an expressionless ‘face’. Razor sharp claws tapped at slim blue thigh plating.

 

Silence stretched between them for a long tense moment, and then the mech crouched down to optic level, and glared at him.

 

“Yes?” Wing finally spoke, offering up one of his disarming smiles and sizing the mech up. His posture screamed violence, and Wing was at a clear disadvantage if this nomad decided to mess with him.

 

He continued to stare, reaching out and prodding at a nacelle with one claw tip. Wing couldn’t stop the flinch that prompted, and the rotor perked up, optic glowing with the palpable glee in his field.

 

“Treat eyebrows right.” A threat wrapped up in the guise of a warning. Wing cocked his helm, studying the other.

 

“Eyebrows?”

 

The mech held both claws up over his optic in a mimicry of the decorative panels Rung sported, and tilted both claws together to form an angry ‘v’ over his optic.

 

“Rung?” Wing hazarded a guess, and the mech nodded.

 

“Don’t hurt eyebrows. Bad things happen in desert.”

 

“A threat against my safety to guarantee the safety of my captor?” He not only didn’t stop the disbelief filling his field, but encouraged it, pumping as much of the sensation as he could out into the air.

 

The mech shrugged, clicking his claws and inspecting the points of one with a feigned air of nonchalance.

 

“Not threat. Promise. Treat mate well, or else.” He’d leaned into Wing’s personal space further, claws prodding at his cheek plates.

 

“WHIRL!” Both mechs jerked at the shout from the entrance of the tent, and the blue mech, Whirl, turned with cheer filling his field now.

 

“Eyebrows!”

 

“Rung, Whirl, it’s Rung. What are you _doing_ in here?” Rung’s disapproval was heavy in the air between them, arms crossed over the glowing center of his chest plate, tapping the ground with a pede. The expectant look on his face brooked no arguments, no evasions.

 

That didn’t stop Whirl from trying, it seemed. He slung one arm around Wing’s shoulders, tugging him in close in a mockery of a friendly embrace, going so far as to shake him a bit.

 

“Brought energon. Chatting with eyebrows’ mate. Right, shiny?” Wing spluttered, twisting his helm to stare incredulously at the insane rotor.

 

“He has a name, Whirl. We’ve been over this. Multiple times.” Rung pinched his nasal ridge, massaging the soft metal and shaking his helm.

 

“Give it to you yet?”

 

“What? No! Of course he hasn’t, he’s only just woken up, and he’s wounded, and this is all very strange for him, so please remove your claws from him, now.” He took a few steps forward, and Whirl pulled his claws away, holding them up in submission.

 

“No name, Shiny it is.” He danced out of Rung’s grasp, darting around the crate and throwing himself at the exit before Rung could grab hold of him and escort him out.

 

“Nice chat, Shiny!” The tent flap closed on those parting words, and Rung shook his helm again, kneeling in front of Wing and offering an apologetic smile. He had a lot of those.

 

“I’m so sorry. Whirl’s…he’s a servo-full, but a good mech at spark.”

 

“He threatened me.” It wasn’t a complaint; he didn’t expect him to do anything about it. He merely wanted to point out that good mechs didn’t usually go around threatening anyone, but especially not prisoners left to their mercy. At least, the knights never did. He supposed he didn’t really know what others would do, given the same set of circumstances.

 

He didn’t expect those eyebrows to furrow down over tinted goggles, or the enraged blat of noise that escaped the little mech. Did… did he just…beep? He didn’t get a chance to ask, the little mech already on his pedes and stalking to the tent entrance. Ripping it back found Whirl lounging about just outside, laying back in the sand with his pedes propped against the pile of pinkened struts that was all that was left of the turbo deer.

 

“Whirl!”

 

Wing watched from his spot on the ground as Rung stood in the entrance, flap clenched tight in one servo. Whirl turned slowly to look at them, antennae flicking with his interest.

 

“You can’t do things like that!” Rung admonished, servos shaking and spinal strut ramrod straight. “You can’t just come in here and threaten my mate. It’s not right, and _you know it_.” Wing had to admire the amount of displeasure Rung managed to flood into his voice, and it had an effect on the rotor. The narrow stabilizing wings on his shoulders drooped, his antennae flattened, and he ducked his featureless helm in abject remorse.

 

“Not a threat, eyebrows…” He mumbled, sitting up with shoulders hunched and claws trailing in the sand.

 

“Really?” Wing could just imagine an eyebrow cocked to go with the tone of voice and the hip that jutted to the side, free servo balled over top the joint.

 

“Promise, not threat.”

 

“Whirl…they’re the same thing with you, nearly 100% of the time. Don’t do it again. Understood?” Whirl nodded, not meeting Rung’s optics and his entire frame radiating shame. It was so obvious that the mech wanted Rung’s approval, Wing almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

 

Rung sighed and turned back into the tent, letting the flap drop closed behind him and shutting out the sun and the dejected mech dragging his pedes in the sand as he left. He bent to pick up a number of jars that had been sitting just inside the entry, and brought them over to set on the floor next to Wing and the chest behind him.

 

Packing away most of the vials, he opened one and pulled out a strip of something that oozed pink.

 

“Are you hungry?” He offered up the thing to Wing, holding it just below optic level and shaking it temptingly. Little droplets of pink beaded on the surface, clinging to the soft metals in glistening little balls of color. Wing drew back, eyeing it with distaste. It smelled of fresh spilt energon and mechanimal, and he feared he knew where it came from.

 

“It’s really good, honest!” Rung popped the piece into his own mouth, chewing and swallowing the bit of flesh and sucking the energon off his fingers almost as an afterthought. Taking another piece from the jar, he offered it again to Wing, who shook his helm and turned away as best he could, offlining his optics and refusing to accept the offer. His tank pinged in protest, but he ignored the warning and tried instead to slip back into his earlier meditation. Macabre as the thoughts had been, they’d taken his mind off the number of discomforts his frame was being subjected to. Hunger was the least of his concerns at the moment, drowned out by the battle between oppressive heat and lingering pain.

 

He’d hoped Rung would take the hint, and leave him be. Instead, he could hear the other mech settle down on the floor, shifting to find a comfortable spot on the hide covering the ground. The sound of chewing flesh echoed in his audials, far louder than it realistically should be. Fingers dipping in the jar, swishing around for another chunk floating in the energon bath, wet sounds of chewing again. His left optic glitched, flickering on and off again rapidly. And again.

 

And then a servo, touching his faceplate. Just a brush of contact, feather light. He onlined his optics in a rush of dizzying feedback, bringing his bound servos up to slap the small servo away. Rung withdrew, servos held up, the jar still in one servo and half emptied.

 

“Please eat?” He asked softly, concern clear on his face.

 

“Please don’t touch me.” Wing replied, settling back into his meditative pose. This time though, he couldn’t sink into that mind blanking calm, no matter how he tried. The touch had unnerved him, the looming threat of rape gnawing at his processor.

 

Honestly, he’d rather take his chances with Whirl. At least the rotor was honest in his insanity. Rung was _likeable._ He had to constantly remind himself that he was a prisoner, not a friend over for a cube of energon and a chat. The cables irritating his joints helped with that reminder, but it was still a close thing.

 

“I won’t force you, you know.” Rung looked at the ground away to his right as he spoke, back to refusing optic contact, “I just… I saw you and I knew you were special. I didn’t want you to die.”

 

Wing said nothing, letting his stony silence speak for him.

 

“You’re injured. You won’t be able to make it home as you are, especially if you refuse to fuel.” Rung pointed out, thrusting the jar out between them in a parody of a peace offering. And maybe it was, for him. But Wing was disgusted, the thought of eating the flesh of another living being deplorable to him. Using both servos, he pushed back on the jar firmly, shaking his helm.

 

“The medic said he can’t look at you until the morning, he’s tied up at the moment.”

 

Wing held up his servos, looking from the cable to Rung and back again.

 

“No, no, not like that. But he _is_ busy, and will be till morning. Your patch will hold till then.” Rung chuckled at the thought of their medic literally tied up as Wing was, and Wing bristled a bit, but still said nothing.

 

“Look,” He continued, leaning in and fixing an earnest stare on the knight, “I know the situation is less than ideal. And I know our ways are completely alien to you. All I’m hoping for, I guess, is a chance. As I said earlier, I have no intentions of forcing you. Rape is a punishable crime in the tribe, whether you choose to believe me or not.”

 

Wing shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, and leaned back as far as the chest at his back would allow. Rung sighed, shifting away from him and giving him some much-appreciated space.

 

“Go to sleep.” Rung finally said, laying down and rolling over to face the opposite wall, presenting his back to Wing in a show of trust Wing felt was misplaced. “We’ll talk more in the morning.” He didn’t sound defeated, or dejected. Just resigned. As if he knew Wing would eventually come to his senses.

 

Well, the mech had a long wait ahead of him, if he was expecting that, Wing thought uncharitably. He scooted down until he could lay on his side, bringing his servos up to prop his helm out of the soft, plush hide. He offlined his optics, but kept sensors online and trained on the other mech.

 

But in the middle of the night, when the air was at it’s coldest, and his frame was shivering with a lack of energon to heat his lines, Rung sleepily rolled over and curled against his front. Wing silenced the alarms, figuring he could shove the mech away in the morning, when it was warmer, and they were both awake to appreciate the argument.


	5. Chapter 5

The noise of the camp woke Wing in the morning, and the first thing he noticed was that Rung was missing. How had he not noticed the bot moving around? He’d been pressed up close enough to him during the night that Wing hadn’t been sure he wouldn’t wake up to find him curled up inside a vent. This whole fiasco was managing to tear down his confidence in his training a little more with each passing joor.

 

He was slow to rise, frame aching and joints protesting the irritation of sand rubbing in sensitive inner workings. Despite the furs covering the ground, sand still seemed to be _everywhere_ and it was already driving him mad. He wasn’t sure how people lived like this long term, with tiny little particles itching and poking and scraping over everything all the time.

 

Outside the tent, he could hear the commotion of a people at work, chattering in that nomadic language that he couldn’t understand. Animals held their own conversations, the low bass tremor of larger beasts and the higher yapping of turbofoxes and cyberhounds harmonizing around the mechs’ voices.

 

It was a sound he thought he could probably meditate to quite comfortably, if the situation had been different. He found himself drifting off anyway, mind clearing itself from the pain of his frame, from the cutting emptiness of his missing Greatsword. The peace was broken, however, and he jolted back to himself as an argument started up. It sounded as though it were going on right outside the tent wall, and shadows playing across the thinner hides confirmed that suspicion.

 

Long moments were spent listening to an argument he couldn’t translate, before one shadow stalked away, leaving the other to throw its hands in the air and shout something rude sounding at the retreating shadow’s back.

 

The mystery mech stomped around to the entrance of the tent, and he perked up at the sight of the red and white mech blocking out the bright sunlight in the entry. He had the boxy build of a medic, even the Deltaran crest if the peeled, faded, sandblasted paint on his shoulder was anything to go by. This was a city mech!

 

“Easy kid.” The bot sighed, kneeling in front of him and unceremoniously tilting his face up with one hand to study his optics with a small light. “I know that look. I’m not here to help you run, I’m here to make sure you aren’t going to bleed out or catch rust or who knows what else. Rung’s good for a field patch, smarter than most, but he’s no medic, all the same.”

 

Wing’s spark shrank in its casing again, brief hope shattered. He didn’t understand, why was this mech walking around freely and not halfway back to civilization by now?

 

Something of his confusion must have read on his face or in his field, because the medic frowned at him and ducked down to inspect the patch over his throat with a grumble.

 

“Was in your tracks once, kid. Even tried to run. Didn’t make it very far out here. It’s hotter than the blasted Pit, and there’s nothing in any direction as far as the optic can see. But it’s not so bad. Everything’s much simpler, and they needed a medic. Their healer does far too much praying, not nearly enough ‘healing’.” The word healer was spat from his vocalizer like a dirty word, and in the medic’s processor, it _was_.

 

The first time he’d seen that pit-spawned healer lay hands on an injured warrior and start chanting was the same instant he’d made up his mind and dragged his captor back to their tent. And as soon as they’d finished, and his bonds had been cut, he was marching out of the tent again with his field kit pulled from subspace. The warrior in question, a mech named Breakdown, had hissed and howled and put up more fuss than any sparkling he’d ever treated in his function, but medics weren’t heavy builds for no reason. He’d pinned the whining glitch down and repaired the crack in the side of his helm after using pressurized air to blow out any sand particles that had gotten inside. A crowd had gathered around to watch, for curiosity at what he was doing, or entertainment at him wrestling the bigger mech down and sitting on him, he wasn’t sure.

 

By the time he’d finished, Breakdown’s pain receptors had dialed back, he was subdued and sulking, and Drift had been rolling with laughter in the sand outside their shared tent with traces of their interfacing still streaking his plating.

 

The spanner that he’d thrown the length of the camp to peg him square in the helm with hadn’t shut him up, but it _had_ won him the respect of quite a few tribesmen.

 

Wing shifted uncomfortably, drawing the medic out of his memories and back to the present. The patch Rung had placed over the his throat was solidly set, and there was nothing he could do better at the moment. He hauled himself to his pedes, and rummaged in his subspace for a second before holding out a small glittering cube of Energon.

 

He laughed at the reverent way Wing carefully took hold of the cube. As if any moment it would fracture into little shards of false hope, leaving him with nothing.

“It’s med-grade. Hard to come by, since I have to forage or trade for most everything in the mix, and it doesn’t keep for long, but it’ll be good for you to get the additives in your system, jump start the nanites to get their job done.” The medic eyed him, putting a hand over the cube when Wing looked like he was going to down it in a single swallow, “Don’t get used to it. Cubes are impractical. You’ll have to get used to our way of eating soon enough.” The warning didn’t faze him; he was far too busy drinking down the neon fluid chilled from storage with his optics shut and an overwhelming _pleasure_ saturating his EM field.

The medic ran a scan on him, studying the readouts in the relative quiet and allowing Wing to enjoy his fuel in peace. When he’d finished, he offered the empty cube back to the other bot, unsure if he’d disperse it or recycle it. He wasn’t sure how difficult it was to make a containment field like that out here.

 

He waited patiently, with a minimum of fussing and fidgeting, for the medic to be finished before he started in with his questions.

 

Finally, the medic just gave him a look and motioned for him to speak.

 

“C’mon kid, I can see the gears turning, so I’m guessing you’ve got questions and you’re not comfortable with askin’ Rung. Out with ‘em.” He eased himself back down with a groan to sit across from Wing on a pile of furs with his back resting up to the other chest.

 

Wing had to be careful with what he said; this bot obviously sympathized with his captors. He couldn’t be too transparent in his questioning.

 

So of course, the first words out of his vocalizer were “Of course not! He _kidnapped_ me!”

 

The medic reset his optics a few times and then shrugged. “Kid, it’s the way of the tribe. I know it’s got you upset, but it’s not as bad as it seems.”

 

“I was _kidnapped._ How can it not be as bad as it seems? And you’re telling me every single couple in the tribe is a kidnapper and their victim?”

 

“Victim? Oh kid, you’ve got this all wrong.” He exvented loudly, rubbing at the base of the white chevron on his helm and offlining his optics for a long moment. “There’s no way I can explain this without upsetting you. It’s a different culture. What you find unacceptable or abhorrent is the norm for them.”

 

Wing snorted, rolling his optics and pinning him with a blank stare.

 

“No, not _every_ relationship in the tribe started off with mate-napping. A few couples just happen naturally between bots, usually ones who grew up from sparklings together. But most? Yea, most happen the way me n’ Drift did. The way you and Rung are.”

 

“He said rape was punishable here? How can that work if you kidnap your partner and force them into a union?” Wing was getting more questions than answers, honestly. Did the medic seriously just say _sparklings?_ There hadn’t been sparklings in generations! The whole idea of reproduction through pairings was distasteful to the council, so it had been replaced with cold construction back before Wing had been brought online.

 

“It is. Don’t give me that look. If you tell your mate no, they’d better not do a damn thing otherwise. I don’t believe for a second Rung _would_ , but if he does, you let someone know. If nothing else, just start yelling for me, it’s not a big camp, I’ll hear you.”

 

He processed that, studying the medic’s face for any signs of deception or half truths, and finding none.

 

“Doesn’t mate mean…you know…” He gestured with his bound hands as best he could, and the other bot threw his helm back, laughing.

 

“Pit! How old are you, kid? Can’t even say interfacing yet?” He asked once he’d gotten his laughter under control. Wing flushed and looked away. The medic’s mood sobered quickly, and he reached out to tap Wing’s knee stabilizer and draw his attention back.

 

“Kid, how old are you?”

 

“Old enough, if that’s your concern.” He snapped, twitching the stabilizer to remove the medic’s hand and straightening up to his full seated height.

 

“Okay, okay. Just had to make sure. Harder to tell with you CC’d bots. Yea, interfacing is part of being mates, but it’s not a forced act. Most mate-nappings occur between tribes, so they’re expected. It’s not the end of the world for tribesmechs; since they’d been conditioned for it since, well… since birth. And if after a while you still don’t mesh as a couple, the elders will give you the option to stay and continue to be courted, or have your weapons returned to you and turned out into the desert.”

 

“You said you ran! But…they’ll let me go?” Hope bloomed at those words, and he twisted his wrists as if the bonds would just magically fall off now that he knew the secret to his escape was simply patience.

 

“Yea kid, I ran. Didn’t have someone to explain things to me. Drift’s grasp of Neocybex was slag, and Rung was away at the time. I was fragged off at the idiot, and didn’t want anything to do with him, so I ran. He came after me, but he didn’t force me to come back. I went back willingly. Being out there for two days? No supplies, no shade, no fuel? I would have died. When we got back, Rung was waiting to talk to me, and I figured I’d just wait it out, and once I had a weapon I could make it home by hunting for my fuel.” He caught the look of agreement on Wing’s face and shook his helm, “Glad I didn’t though. I knew slag all about hunting. It’s not a simple thing; they just make it _look_ easy. But that didn’t matter, ‘cause Drift grew on me, they needed a medic, and it’s a pit load less stressful than the politics and drama back home.”

 

Wing stayed silent, processor spinning at the new information. When the silence stretched on for too long, the other bot let out a heavy exvent, pushing himself to his pedes and turning to leave. He had one servo already on the flap of the tent, when the jet spoke.

 

“Wait! I don’t even know your designation?”

 

“It’s Ratchet, kiddo. And word to the wise. Don’t give anyone yours, not until you’re ready to commit.”

 

As Ratchet stepped out, Rung squeezed by him, giving them both a brilliant smile.

 

“Ready to meet some of the tribe? I usually work with some of the older sparklings on their language skills around now. I thought you’d like to stretch your legs, move a little bit.”

 

“Sparklings?” Rung laughed at the excitement and curiosity in his field and his voice, and knelt in front of him to undo the lead tying him to the chest.

 

“Yes, sparklings. You’ve never seen one, have you?”

 

He shook his helm, rolling to his knees and getting his pedes under him before rising unsteadily. Rung hovered, servos out and ready to help if he stumbled, but respecting his boundaries. In light of the new information he’d received from Ratchet, he was put at ease seeing this silent gesture of respect. He’d still be on guard, but maybe, just maybe, he could wait this out like a long, unplanned vacation, and convince them to let him go the next time they were close to a city.

 

“If you promise not to make a fuss or leave my side, I don’t see why we need a lead, do you?” Rung asked, holding out the coil of cable still tied to the chest and smiling again.

 

Wing smiled back, and nodded. “I’d rather see these sparklings you keep mentioning than run at the moment. Maybe later.” Rung laughed, and let the bundle of cable drop to the floor.

 

“Let’s go then, they’ll be waiting.” He held the flap out of the way and Wing ducked out into the bright sunlight and noise of the camp.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was hard. I'm not good with little kids, and while I figure Wing is a total softie for the little guys, getting into that mindset was a tricky proposition ^_^;;; Hopefully it didn't come out too botched! Also, tags have been updated, may want to check them out :)

Outside the tent was a bustle of light and noise and bots moving from one task to another with an efficiency and ease that spoke of long practice. Wing stood blinking in the entrance while Rung moved around him. He could feel the little bot watching him, surely smiling at him, but he was too busy taking in the feel of a tribe at work. Large warriors sat or stood in groups, talking, laughing, taking care of weapons. Others sat outside their tents working on cleaning hides, or working on animal carcasses he very studiously avoided looking at.

 

A mech sat outside the tent next to theirs, a hide stretched out over a frame in front of them. In the sand between them was a tiny little protoform, covered in rudimentary armor plates, playing with a couple of worn struts with a single-minded focus. Wing instantaneously fell to his knees, watching the impossibly small bot play. It looked up at him, tilting its head and chirping in a basic binary. His smile stretched his face wide enough it hurt, and he leaned forward, servos outstretched to touch.

 

It screeched static, and hopped to its pedes. In one smooth motion it had folded down into a little ball of overlapping plates and rolled back towards the mech by the hide. Wing blinked, his servos still hovering over the place where the bot had sat, spark shrinking in its case.

 

The little ball of sparkling was rolling repeatedly into the mech’s pede, chattering in binary in clear demand to be picked up and removed from the perceived threat of the stranger. Wing let his servos drop, shoulders drooping and pinions flattened to his nacelles. He wasn’t sure what he had done wrong, but clearly he had frightened this child, the first he had ever seen outside of history vids in the citadel. He couldn’t help but feel that Axe or Dai Atlas would have handled the meeting much better.

 

Possibly not Dai, he amended. The bot was massive, and size was probably a factor in the problem. But Axe. Axe would have made friends with the bot in a spark beat!

 

Oblivious to much outside his own personal shame, he missed the looks shared over his helm between Rung and the other bot, both trying desperately to hold back their laughter. Eventually, Rung stepped around him and picked up the little ball. Turning around with it cradled in the crook of one arm, he gently tapped on Wing’s shoulder, motioning for him to sit down. Once seated, Rung sat across from him, cross legged, and stroked the ball with a few fingers. After a few moments of coaxing, the trembling ball unrolled into the little white and purple protoform again to smile up at the orange bot holding it and chatter away. Flailing servos caught hold of Rung’s wrist, and pulled down until Rung laughed and gave in to rubbing its belly.

 

The little bot went limp in the cradle of his arm, little squeaks and rumbles from its undersized engine indicating its delight in the change of events. Rung caught his optic, and looked down and back up again, inviting him closer. It took the third mech stepping close and pushing at him to get him to move, kneeling next to Rung and holding perfectly still as the bot made optic contact. He didn’t dare so much as exvent while it studied him, certain it was going to pop right back down into that odd altmode and hide again.

 

When it didn’t, he looked to Rung, who smiled and motioned for him to touch the little bot.

 

“He’s a fan of belly rubs.” Rung pulled his servos down with his free hand till the rested on the little bot’s abdominal plates. It kicked and flailed it’s terrifyingly spindly little limbs, but grinned up at the two of them and chattered away.

 

Wing’s spark melted. He couldn’t think of any other way to describe the complete awe and adoration that came over him for the bitlet as it latched onto his wrists with both servos, and started chewing on his thumb.

 

While he was busy watching the little bot smear oral fluids all over his servo, others had gathered around them. Carriers dropped off their sparklings, speaking to Rung for a moment or watching Wing’s reverent interaction with the sparkling in Rung’s hold. When Wing finally looked up, little bots of all shapes and sizes surrounded him. A few were only a tiny bit bigger than the one he was playing with, still sporting that thin armor plating that he could now see would provide 360 **°** of protection, should they need it. Others were larger; maybe half Rung’s size or a little taller.

 

Rung set the happily purring little sparkling in the cradle of Wing’s arms and turned to the gathered group. Before Wing could so much as _begin_ to protest leaving the tiny, vulnerable little thing in his bound arms, the bot in question had scaled his torso and flopped belly down in the small, rounded cavity between his nacelle and his neck, limbs draped down over his chest and back.

 

Rather than risk dislodging it or pinching it between moving parts, Wing froze. And sat perfectly still like that for nearly two and a half cycles while Rung gave the sparklings gathered around them a lesson in Neocybex. Every so often, he’d look up, catching Wing’s optic and smiling. Wing caught himself smiling back each and every time, unable to be _too_ upset while he had the little bot lounging on his shoulder like a limp electro-parrot.

 

The last breem of the lesson, Rung split the group in half, and sent six sparklings to him to practice their lesson with. Wing had had to cycle back through the lesson in quick time to remember just what Rung had been talking about, but was more than happy to speak to the bitlets. The younger, smaller ones were difficult to understand at times, their speech choppy and broken up by foreign words. When they ran up on something they didn’t know in the middle of a sentence, they barreled straight on through, switching back to their own mother tongue for the word or concept, then back to Neo for the rest.

 

The older two that were assigned to speak with him took it slower, concentrating on what they were saying instead of just spitting the lesson back out. The larger of the two paused at one point, tilting their helm and clicking their vocalizer while they tried to puzzle out something. They said something in their own language and Wing quirked his mouth, the best he could do to mime confusion without dumping his passenger from his perch. They mimicked the expression, then their optics brightened as they tried miming what they were looking for.

 

“Flight?” He guessed, then looked to Rung, “Rung, what does this word mean?” He repeated what the bot had been saying, and Rung nodded.

 

“Flight. Flying, actually. He’s asking if you want to go flying with him later. His creators are on the hunt, and he can’t fly unless he’s with an adult. Unfortunately I’m not exactly built for flight.” Rung laughed, reaching back to flick at a wheel recessed into the armor on his back.

 

“Oh.” Wing frowned, glancing up at the sky. It _was_ beautiful, a bright turquoise blue with puffy pale clouds dotting the open expanse. The thermals would be amazing, just judging from the heat rising off the ground beneath him and causing him to bake in his armor.

 

“I would, but I’m afraid I’m grounded for the moment.” He finally said, giving Rung a glance from the corner of his optic. The orange bot ducked his helm, rubbing at the back of his neck and flushing a bit.

 

The sparkling blinked, looking up at him in confusion, little wing nubs flicking up and down. Seeing this, Rung said something in their language to him. Wing assumed it was a translation of what he said, but then the little flyer looked between them and giggled, saying something back to Rung in rapid fire nomadic.

 

Wing fully planned on asking just what Rung had said, but a commotion from across the camp drew everyone’s attention.

 

The hunting party was back it seemed, with a few large animals being carried in strung up on poles. One bot near the back, a mostly black and white bot with bits of blue and red with a bright blue visor, was struggling with another black and white mech he had slung over his shoulder. The mech was kicking and spitting out curses, his doorwings arched up high on his back. Wing assumed from the lack of hitting that his servos were bound. Was this another bot like him?

 

Rung stood abruptly, shooing a sparkling out of his lap with a tight smile, and kneeling in front of Wing as if to block his view. Luckily, being a good deal larger than the other mech meant that even on his knees, Rung could completely block his view. Over the little mech’s helm, he watched as the bound mech kicked again, pede connecting squarely with a hip joint. The captor dropped to one knee, and the Praxian (at least, Wing assumed, from the door wings…) took off running, heading in a path that would bring him close to if not right into the middle of their little group. Even as his processor was screaming at him to get up and run, to help this other mech, and maybe himself in the process, he instinctively blocked the sparklings, and Rung, from harm as the mech drew close.

 

The gesture was appreciated by Rung, and the worried creators watching from the other side of the camp, but ultimately not needed. The captor had gotten his pedes under him again, and tackled the fleeing mech to the sand before he’d made it halfway across the open expanse in the middle of the ring of tents. They rolled in the sand, each struggling to over power the other. The nomad rolled over on top of the captive, pinning his wrists in one hand and pressing the other over the rather impressive bumper wrapping around his torso. The captive snarled something in that coarse nomadic tongue. Both nomads then, Wing decided, watching with interest now that the sparklings were in no immediate danger.

 

The captor laughed, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the other bot’s helm, right between his optics. The tension drained out of the both of them at that silent gesture, and most of the assembled mechs started shouting and whooping.

 

Wing was so confused. Again. He had thought that the mech wanted free? Rung sighed, leaning in to press his helm to Wing’s chest plate without thinking. He jerked back when the jet tensed, servos up once more in surrender.

 

“Sorry. I wasn’t sure what would happen…they can be…unpredictable.”

 

“What. Was. That?” Wing asked slowly, optics still locked on the pair sharing an extremely passionate kiss right in the middle of camp. The only concession the captor had made was to pull the other bot into a sitting position to take stress off his doorwings.

 

“That would be Jazz and Prowl.” Rung sighed, turning to watch the display himself and shaking his helm. “Jazz is the one with the visor. Prowl’s from a different tribe, and they’ve been going back and forth for _vorns_. Looks like Jazz finally won.”

 

He listened with half an audial as Rung explained how the two had met during a hunt. Jazz had apparently started stalking the other mech soon after, and attempted on a regular basis to kidnap the bot and bring him home. A few times, he’d come close before Prowl would escape, but he’d never made it all the way back to camp. Prowl had tried stealing Jazz away only twice. Rung figured Prowl enjoyed the attention. He was a valued mech in his own tribe, his tactical skills were second to none and had helped their tribe grow large and strong over the years. But from what Jazz said, they treated him with a respect that kept him at arms length from everyone around him. Nobody wanted to anger him for fear of loosing a valuable asset. It seemed that they had succeeded in doing just that by doing nothing at all.

 

Rung also figured that Prowl had gotten tired of waiting for Jazz to come up with a plan that he couldn’t think his way out of, and made it a little easier for him.

 

Wing nodded in the appropriate places, filing the information away in his processor to review later. Right then, he was busy watching as the two mechs kissed with the clear intent of a couple intending to interface. Servos wandered, plating heated, and Wing felt an answering zing of heat in his own pelvic array when interfacing equipment was bared to the light of day. He sent a command to his own interfacing array, shutting down strings of code before they could proceed further. 

 

“Oh for the love of!” Rung huffed, shooing the sparklings towards his tent and pulling Wing to his pedes. The little mech was stronger than Wing had given him credit for, he thought as his processor spun from the sudden change in positions.

 

“Come on, we’ll finish the lesson inside, their carriers will be here to collect them shortly, and the last thing I want for dinner conversation tonight is a bitlet asking what those two are doing.” Rung’s face was flushed, a bright red stain on his cheeks and nasal ridge to compliment the heat Wing felt on his own face.

 

The tent flap closed behind them, just as the moans from the two in the sand started up, and the cheering rose to a crescendo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure Jazz is definitely not one to wait for privacy when he's finally got what he's wanted for ages! LOL


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Rung woke before the jet once again. Smiling down at the sleeping figure, he resisted the urge to brush a kiss over the knight’s relaxed face, but just barely. He sat up, carefully sneaking out of the other mech’s arms and pouting at the loss of that warmth. The air was already heating up in the tent from the morning sun, but he would have gladly run through his coolant tank before even thinking about moving, if he didn’t think the other mech would find issue with cuddling his captor upon waking.

He made sure the line tying the jet to the storage chest was secured, and that their weapons were all still hidden away out of reach. Then he stepped out of the tent, heading for the medic’s space on the other side of camp.

Mechs greeted him as he walked, and he returned the pleasantries, but made no time to stop and chat. Sparklings shouted for him to play, and he excused himself every time with a smile and a piece of gelled sweet fuel. Nine times out of ten, that’s what they were really wanting, anyway.

He stepped over the sleeping forms of Prowl and Jazz, glad someone had remembered to bring them a blanket at some point during the night. Prowl lay with his head on Jazz’s shoulder, wings twitching in his sleep. Jazz was flat on his back, mouth open and oral lubricants pooling in the corners, vents making little whistling noises with every intake.

The entrance to the tent Ratchet shared with his mate was closed, the medical symbol Ratchet had painted on it faded on the hide from years in the sun. Rung pushed the heavy flap aside, ducking in with a greeting for Ratchet dying on his glossa.

Ratchet was nestled in his and Drift’s nest of furs, his mate leaning over him, hips a blur of red and white as he thrust into Ratchet’s valve.

The medic looked over, face flushed and optics glazed, and caught sight of Rung frozen in the entrance with a grin on his face.

“Rung! The –ah! The door wasn’t, _frag, Drift, right there!_ The damn door wasn’t open yet you nosy little ankle biter!” Ratchet wasn’t too concerned, busy wrapping his legs around Drift’s tiny wasp waist and pulling him in closer. Drift shot Rung a smile and a wink over his shoulder pauldron and pressed a kiss to his mate’s mouth, picking up the pace and devolving the medic’s speech to grunts and moans.

Rung backed out of the tent quickly, his faceplate scalding hot. They’d already forgotten about him, Drift burying his face in Ratchet’s neck and snaking one servo between their frames to pull more moans from the medic.

Rung dropped down to sit in the sand, sending up a little puff cloud on impact that he waved away irritably. He knew better than to assume courting his knight would be a simple task. He’d expected difficulties from the moment he’d decided to bring him home. But by Primus it was getting more difficult by the second, between Jazz and Prowl’s vocal union under the stars last night, and now this? He caught his servo sneaking down his abdominal plating towards his panel, and snatched it away again like he’d been burnt.

Maybe he’d take the knight to the oasis later. He would surely enjoy the cool, clean water on his plating. He doubted the jet had ever gone so long in his life without a solvent bath. It had the added bonus of maybe cooling some of the heat from his own frame, so he wouldn’t have to sneak off like a youngling to handle things himself.

After Drift stepped out with a spring in his step and a wink for Rung, the littler bot snuck back into the tent, trying to ignore the completely over the top happy tune the speedster was humming as he headed out to handle the day’s tasks.

Ratchet had already cleaned up and was hard at work going through the supplies that had been liberated from the caravan. He smirked at Rung when he saw him, gesturing to the tent opening.

“You can tie that back now.” Rung did as he was told, opening the flap and securing it away so that the warm breeze could circulate, and anyone who needed the medic could walk in without issue. “Some day, you’ll learn to comm first, I hope.”

Rung just blushed again, hot enough his goggles started to steam.

“I still say we could get these supplies a better way.” Ratchet changed the subject, busy sorting through a case with his back to Rung.

He shrugged anyway, taking up a case of his own and carefully sifting through vials of nanites, additives, and other medical things he had no name for. It was difficult for Ratchet, even after how long he’d been with them. So used to a well-stocked medical facility, or even just the ability to go buy supplies for his clinic, it made it difficult for him to justify the tribe’s methods.

“They won’t trade with us. We already know that, Ratchet.” It was so easy to slip back into unaltered Neocybex with the medic, who’d refused to ‘butcher his language just because some idiots refused to acknowledge basic articles of speech’. Being Ratchet, he’d said this, loudly, not too long after he’d first been brought into camp.

That had started a fairly intense debate between the two. While the nomads’ grasp of ‘proper’ neocybex was shaky at the best of times, Rung worked with the younger generation, and those who wanted to learn, to help them strengthen their knowledge of what they referred to as the city-speak.

It was unfair to insult a people who had no use for a language other than to make sure that a different people who looked down on them weren’t taking advantage of them! Their own language had no need of many of the ‘extra’ words from neocybex. Things were implied, and easy enough to follow unless you walked in on the middle of a conversation! And that was exactly what Rung had said, feeling no shame in climbing up on top of a crate in the middle of the camp to get his pointer finger that much closer to the audacious medic’s face.

Ratchet had blinked a few times, processing this little bot giving him a lesson in manners in front of all this big, heavily armored nomads.

“I like you, kid. Glad to see spinal struts haven’t gone out of style for the little guys.” He’d said, a smirk twisting his faceplates as he held up both hands in surrender.

“Doesn’t mean I’m going to drop half the words from my vocabulary.” It was a warning he’d been very serious about, but that didn’t mean he didn’t demand Rung teach him their language the day after he’d accepted Drift and made himself part of the tribe. And their resident medic.

A medic who needed supplies that he simply couldn’t synthesize with what tools he had at his disposal. Thus the periodic raids.

“We try not to kill or seriously injure anybot, and we leave them with enough supplies to make it back to safety. That’s the best we can do with the options we have.” It was an unnecessary reminder, but one Rung felt was needed again, nonetheless.

“ _You_ try, Rung. Mainly, just you. Look at what Blitzwing did to that knight of yours, and I’m sure he had him beat back before he took that last swing. How many bots were stripped and left for the desert this time?”

“Too many… but that’s why I go, Ratchet. You know this.” Every death weighed on Rung’s spark, heavier than even Ratchet would ever really know. He didn’t like the senseless waste of life, but without a peace between their peoples, it was the best he could do, to spare the lives of anybot he went up against, and to try and be at the forefront of the charge.

“One day it’s going to get you killed, short stuff.” Ratchet turned, leaning a hip against the stack of crates and studying him, “You wanna talk about it?”

“…One might not make it back.” He said quietly, hunching his shoulders and digging further into the crate as if he knew what he was looking for.

“One you fought?” Ratchet was used to this by now, this hatred that Rung had for himself after every raid. Talking him out of it didn’t always work, but that never stopped him from trying, and he’d learned over the years how to navigate that minefield with the least amount of explosions possible.

“The first. I went down too fast, cut too deep. Couldn’t check my speed in time, and he may have paid for it.” He’d made sure Drift had patched the bot up as best he could before he’d been drug under the transports with the others, with his vents still running, but it wasn’t a guarantee of survival unless they’d woken up quickly and gotten him to a medic of their own.

“Can’t always help it, you know that.” A hand on his shoulder, pressing down just enough to make them drop, not enough to make him feel forced. He really was good at this, Rung thought miserably. 

“But I brought one back, I should have brought the other, so you could _make sure_ he was okay!” There it was, out in the open. The guilt he’d been harboring since he’d pulled that sled away, loaded down with one bot and not the other.

“Did you feel something for the other one, besides guilt?”

“…no. I know the rules, Ratchet, I do! I’ve been here a lot longer than you have!” He slammed a servo down on the edge of the crate, the contents inside rattling together. Ratchet stepped back, hands up, and Rung wondered how many times someone would do that around him in the next orn or so. He wasn’t wrong though, he knew nothing good would have happened to that bot, had he brought him back. In good conscience he wouldn’t be able to lie to the elders and convince them that the bot he’d hurt was the one he wanted for his mate. And if he _had_ done that, his knight would have been the one with an unsure and most likely far shorter future ahead of him.

“You gave him the best chance you could, kid. Don’t let it eat at you.” He said that every time. They both knew he would, though. It was no different than when Rung asked him to not let a lost patient get to him. All Ratchet could really do was watch, and wait, and be ready to help pick up the pieces after Rung had a quiet break down somewhere down the line when the tribe was settled again, and there was no immediate pressing needs on his time.

Ratchet could only hope that the bot he’d brought home would warm up to him, and maybe give him something to focus on other than his guilt this time. Hope very rarely netted him anything, though, and he was going to be prepared, just in case.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Axe onlined slowly, processor struggling to catch up. A hand on his shoulder caused him to shift and tense, but the EM field that washed over him was familiar and comforting, and when Dai Atlas pressed down, he relaxed back onto the circuit slab without protest.

Optics booting, he saw he was back in the citadel, hooked up to monitors and an energon drip. Dai stood over him with a worried look creasing his stern face.

It took three tries to boot his vocalizer, and when it onlined, it was with a painful screech of static feedback, but finally he was able to ask his friend and leader what had happened. The last thing he remembered was a blur of orange and white slashing at his throat and then things went dark.

It took quite a bit of prompting from Axe before Dai would speak, and the dread in his field told him he wasn’t going to like the news.

“They’ve taken Wing.”


	8. Chapter 8

Wing had woken again to an empty nest of furs, and took the time to stretch, tied wrists rising over his helm, back arching off the floor. Feeling things pop along his spinal strut that had been tense and tight for too long, he groaned and sank back into the bed with a sigh of satisfaction. Fiddling with the knot around his wrists was almost an afterthought, and he let his gaze flit around the tent while he worked.

 

Nothing had changed from the night before. Still the same pile of furs, the same two chests, the same sand in every single crack and crevice of every thing in existence.

 

Looking down, he saw that he’d made no headway with the clever knot tucked between his wrists in a hard to reach spot. Rung had left him enough length between his servos to use them relatively independently of one another, but not nearly enough to get his fingers on that knot. Venting his frustration only succeeded in kicking up the fine layer of sand that had settled over the chest he was kneeling in front of. He waved his servos in front of his face, coughing and spluttering as his vents sucked in some of the grit.

 

He was so _tired_ of sand.

 

Once his venting was under control again, he studied the chest more closely. It was solely for the sake of appeasing his curiosity. He held no hope that there would be weapons or anything of use inside. The lid had no sort of security lock on it; instead it was an _old_ old-fashioned style of clasp with a decoratively spiraled rod holding the protruding clasps of the top and bottom together. It slid free easily, and the lid rose on well cared for hinges.

 

Inside, there was a tray sitting on top, filled with little knick-knacks. He pushed the tray up, seeing only a few old, worn furs and the jars from yesterday in the larger space underneath. The bits of flesh suspended in congealing energon turned his tank, and he quickly dropped the lid again in favor of inspecting things that were a lot less grim.

 

Mostly it was useless little things. A lot of broken tidbits, things that he was sure Rung probably kept from raids. A little hover disc missing a balancing coil, a figurine of a Prime long since gone with one of its arms broken off, and more than half a dozen model ships in varying states of disarray, little things that made no sense to keep. Especially for a bot that had to be able to carry his home with him whenever they moved. Even a pair of old glasses, one of the lenses shattered, and the connector pins corroded. He held them up, turning them over carefully in his servos to not disturb the broken glass clinging to the rim. They were so small, the size of his palm and not much more.

 

In fact, they were the same size as Rung’s goggles. But unlike his goggles, which were roughly made and decorated with the sharp line work that nomads favored, these glasses, despite the damage, were very clearly city-made. The clean seam lines and small little decorative filigrees in the corners where the connectors were housed that had fallen out of style a very long time ago made them very not tribal. At first, Wing supposed he’d stolen them from a caravan, maybe thinking he could use them? But the colors were near identical. It could be coincidence, he supposed, but then again, it could be that Rung’s paint had worn down over time in the sun while these glasses sat stored away in the dark. He traced the sharp edge of the broken lens with his thumb absentmindedly, and hissed when it nicked a joint cable, drawing a bead of energon to the surface.

 

“What are you doing?” He jumped at the sound, dropping the glasses and watching in dismay as they struck the edge of the open box before bouncing off one of his knee stabilizers and sliding to the furs, glass from the broken lens spraying out to lay glittering in the nest around him. Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw Rung standing in the entrance, watching him curiously.

 

“Are you okay? You’re bleeding.” Rung crossed the floor quickly, dropping to his knees next to him, mindful of the pieces of lens sticking up like sharp little growths amidst the furs. He grabbed his servos and pulled them in close, inspecting the little cut that oozed energon sluggishly.

 

“I’m fi-“ Wing fell silent as Rung leaned in closer still and smoothed over the nick with his glossa, cleaning up the energon and pressing a finger to it when he was done. His free servo was rummaging through yet another unseen compartment and pulling out a bit of mesh that he replaced his finger with.

 

“Don’t want it getting dirty. Sand likes to get into everything.” Rung smiled weakly, not meeting his optics as he released his servos and started picking up the bits of lens crystal around their knees.

 

“Um…thank you? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break them.” He chose to say nothing about what had just transpired between them, half his processor power spent trying to silence that damn niggling little line of traitorous code that kept mentioning how cute Rung was, especially with his mouth pressed to any part of Wing.

 

“Don’t worry about it. They were already broken. I just hadn’t gotten around to throwing them away.” Rung laughed, waving it off and accepting the frames back from Wing with a smile.

 

“Then why did you save them? They’re very old.”

 

“Why do you say that?”

 

“That design, it’s an old one. I haven’t seen it very often outside of the Citadel anymore.”

 

“Oh. I suppose you’re right.” Rung shrugged, fingers tracing at the delicate designs. Seeing the frames, so little in his own servo, fitting so well in Rung’s, and the colors just seemed right, even faded. They had to be his.

 

Rung said didn’t elaborate, frame eerily still, caught up in some memory that Wing couldn’t see.

 

“Will you untie me? Please?” Wing finally asked, holding up his servos and adopting a pleading expression. It was more a bid to break the silence that had fallen over the smaller bot than a true hope of release. Rung’s optics had gone dim behind his goggles as he stared down at the relic in his servos.

 

“Not yet, I’m sorry. The rules are very clear on this.”

 

“How can you think it’s alright to keep me here against my will?” Wing asked, wincing when his flight panels flared subconsciously with his ire. Or tried to, anyway. The rough bindings holding them still rubbed and irritated at the joints as they flexed. He hadn’t meant to start an argument, in all honesty, but Rung’s answer had been irritating enough, the reminder he was grounded only made things worse.

 

“You’re my mate. It’s the way of our people. You’ll learn in time, I promise.” Rung smiled, touching the jet’s cheek and leaning in to nuzzle at his neck cables.

 

“They’re not my people!” Wing cried, loosing any composure he’d had left, and jerking back from Rung’s touch “And I don’t think they’re your people either! You don’t look like a nomad, you look like…like…”

 

“Like a city mech?” Rung’s voice had gone cold and flat in an instant, and his face was closed off, optics dull.

 

“Well...yes. There are very similar models to your frame in some of the cities…and nomads are usually so much…bigger.” Wing was loosing steam for his argument the longer Rung pinned him with that cold stare.

 

“I belong to this tribe.” Rung said, turning away to stare intently at the side of the tent.

 

“I just-“

 

“No! You don’t know what you’re talking about. I belong here!” Wing shrank back at the violent outburst, and watched the other bot cautiously. Rung had flung himself to his feet, pacing the length of the tent and twisting his servos together, cutting himself on the sharp edges of the lenses. “I belong here.” He repeated, shoulders shaking.

 

Wing hauled himself to his pedes, lacking his usual grace for the bindings at his wings and wrists. The next pass that Rung made in his pacing, the knight carefully grabbed his arm in both servos. He took only a moment to marvel once more at how small this bot really was, his arm engulfed in Wing’s grip, with his fingers easily overlapping. Then he was pulling the little orange mech into an awkward hug, kneeling now that he had a support to lean against and draping his bound servos over his back. He leaned in, resting his chin on top of his helm and wrapping him up in his EM field, projecting _calm/apologetic/confusion._

 

Rung squirmed for a moment, fingers curled against his nacelles. Wing pressed their helms together, optics closed to give him that small bit of privacy, and felt the tension drain from his struts just before he curled into the embrace and buried his face in Wing’s shoulder linkage.

 

“You really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rung sighed, fingers of one servo kneading at cables in his shoulder joints in a surprisingly pleasant way, picking bits of sand and grit from grooves and flicking them to the floor. The other rested as a fist against his back, still clutching at the old glasses. Wing could feel warm little drips against his back, energon from the cuts in his palm no doubt.

 

“Then help me understand? You keep me here, against my will. I know nothing about you, yet you wish to be mates. I can’t begin to give you the chance you asked for, until you let me know you.” He flared his plating to give Rung easier access to the sand, mindful of pinching small fingers.

 

“Do you…do you know of the Functionalists?” His voice had gone small as he spoke, nothing like the spitfire bot that had dragged him home and blindsided him with his strength and cunning.

 

“Of course I do. Everyone knows the functionalist council, they’re in charge of the assignment of tasks to all bots within the city walls.” Rung snorted, derisive, shoulders hunched up around his audials. Wing leaned back a little, tilting his helm to the side and studying the mech in his arms.

 

Rung seemed to grow a little under the concerned stare, straightening his spinal strut and schooling his features into something less open.

 

“You don’t sound much like you agree with that.”

 

Wing shrugged in response, pinions flaring open a little. “I’m a knight. They don’t necessarily agree with our philosophy, our ideals.”

 

“Knights are guards. You have purpose.” It was said as a statement of fact, but Rung tilted his head to the side in an endearing manner, and Wing really needed to stomp out that thought process before it went any further. This was his captor. He may be small and attractive, and oh so vulnerable in his arms at the moment, but still his captor. He should be focusing on a way to escape, instead of offering comfort to him.

 

“Most believe that, and we allow it for the safety of ourselves and those who work with us. But the title of knight, it’s stunted…it’s not just a job description; it’s who we are. And not in the way they would like it to be. We are knights of the Circle of Light, and we safeguard the heritage of our people, going back long before the Functionalists came into power, back to before the desert bots and the city mechs split apart.” He couldn’t help the small amount of pride that tinged his vocals as he spoke, thumbs stroking down Rung’s neck cables as tension eeked back out of his system once more.

 

“So you’re…historians with swords?” Rung snorted, reaching over his shoulder to flick teasingly at the empty upper clamp on his spinal strut. That aching reminder of emptiness sent Wing’s mood plummeting again, and he wasn’t quick enough to keep the _ache/hurt/empty/failure_ out of his field. The nomad flinched back as far as the arms around him would allow, servos drawn close to his own chest and curled into fists.

 

“Sorry…We’re so much more than historians, and the Functionalists are worried that we’ll undo all that they’ve done and deliver the city states back to the so called ‘anarchy’ from before their time.” He wouldn’t mention the tails that every Knight had assigned to follow them inside the city walls, the few who’d been taken, the one who’d disappeared. If this nomad thought him in danger, being his ‘mate’, he may _never_ remove Wing’s bindings and give him the chance to escape.

 

“They tortured me.” Rung said, rubbing his nasal ridge and staring at the wall again. It was Wing’s turn to tense, servos flexing into fists against Rung’s plating. The smaller bot smiled, a little half sparked lifting of one corner of his mouth, and smoothed his servos over Wing’s nacelles. “It was a long time ago. My altmode serves no practical purpose. They thought they could force a purpose on it. It failed. So they threw me out in the desert, broken, nearly off line, no weapons, no energon. I suppose they thought the desert would finish what they’d started.”

 

“The nomads found you?” Wing guessed, easing back down to sit once his leg cables started to protest, and pulling Rung into his lap as he went.

 

Rung nodded, reaching up and tracing Wing’s audial flares. A shiver ran down his spinal strut at the touch. His audials were ridiculously sensitive, and a heat already started pooling behind his panel at the continued attention. He ruthlessly shut that string of code down with a manual override, and then a second when it picked right back up.

 

“They figured I’d die. But I didn’t. They thought it was a sign that I was meant to be part of the tribe. I didn’t argue, since I couldn’t really remember anything from before the Functionalists got hold of me… I still can’t remember much. They took a lot of my memories away while they were in my head, I suppose.”

 

“You don’t remember who you were before?”

 

Rung shrugged, and smiled at him. This one was genuine, not a hint of sadness or self-depreciation to be seen.

 

“I’ve always been Rung. I know I helped people, before. But I don’t know if I was a doctor, or a therapist, or even a security bot. My alt-mode doesn’t give me any clues, and they took anything that suggested at my purpose in life when they tried to remake me. But I know I’m Rung, and that’s what’s important.”

 

Wing leaned back, unhooking his arms from around Rung’s shoulders. The other mech was slow to rise, climbing out of his lap and making to stand up. Wing carefully took hold of his injured servo, and drew him back close, to kneel between his splayed legs. Turning the captured servo over, he coaxed tense fingers to uncurl, and picked the shards out of his palm. He dropped them, one by one, back into the tray, now covered in drying energon. Taking the cloth Rung had found from his servo before he could protest, he started very gently swiping at the cuts, daubing up the pooling energon. He pressed a clean corner of the cloth down while he reached into the open compartment without invitation and grabbed some more mesh.

 

He looked up at Rung’s face, and the flush on his cheeks had him sliding his gaze down to his uninjured servo and the glasses he still clutched instead.

 

“So those glasses are yours, then?”

 

“They _were_ mine. A very long time ago.” Rung sighed, dropping them back into the tray and closing the lid. He didn’t latch it, though, setting the pin instead on top of the lid and turning around to lean his back against the crate and stare up at the ceiling of the tent.

 

“And the other things?”

 

Rung rolled his helm to the side, looking at Wing and smiling a sad little smile.

 

“The only things I’d had on me when they threw me away.”

 

“All you had were toys?” Wing couldn’t help the incredulousness in his voice and field, outraged that the Functionalists, _his people if not by choice,_ had left a mech with nothing and expected him to die.

 

Rung misread the anger and disbelief in his field and shrugged, “I didn’t know any better back then. All I carry now are supplies. The trinkets stay here.”

 

Wing stayed silent, leaning up against the trunk beside Rung and trying to put together the vicious nomads he’d been warned about with the hurt outcast sitting at his elbow and venting very slowly with his optics shut.

 

“We’re not all bad, Rung.” He finally said, leaning to the side enough to bump their arms together.

 

He turned to look at him, another genuine smile on his face. “Neither are we. And I don’t think you are! If I did, I wouldn’t bother trying to make sure as many bots make it home from our raids as possible. The functionalists are the monsters here, not all city mechs.” He leaned into the touch Wing had offered, EM field lightening.

 

“What did they do to you?” Even as he asked it, he regretted it.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it, not now.” Rung had turned to bury his face in Wing’s shoulder, and he held perfectly still while the small bot mumbled into his nacelle.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t in a good head space when I came in. I shouldn’t have unloaded all of this onto you.” Rung pushed away, adjusting those ever-present goggles. “I don’t want you to think I’m looking for sympathy. I’m happy here. I fit in. And I want you to be happy here, too.”

 

Wing opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it. He couldn’t be cruel, it just wasn’t in him to be. To spark that argument again after Rung had relived what were obviously very upsetting memories would be a kind of hurtful he refused to be. The argument could wait until later.

 

“Actually, I had a completely different reason for coming back so quickly.”

 

“Oh?” He let his audials wiggle in curiosity, dragging a giggle from the other bot.

 

“We’re moving on tomorrow, and I’d hate to pass up a chance to show you the oasis before we left. It’s nice and cool, and clean. Interested?”

 

Wing was struggling to his pedes before Rung had finished speaking, and the laughing bot helped him with a servo on his elbow.

 

He couldn't _wait_ to get the sand out of his joints. Even if only for a moment!


	9. Chapter 9

Rung had promised the walk to the oasis wasn’t a terribly long one, but it was spent in silence; his field was reserved, drawn in tight to his frame like a second set of armor. Wing found himself contemplating what he’d learned of the little mech, appreciative of the bit of distance he was given to examine his thoughts.

 

He’d known the Functionists were zealous in their beliefs. There were rumors that mechs that didn’t fit their ideals disappeared. The rumors had been enough for Dai Atlas to argue fairly frequently with Axe, more in favor of closing off the citadel and the city it protected, with each passing cycle.

 

The arguments, which had been a fairly frequent background noise from the first day they started building New Crystal City, only grew more heated when one of their own mechs had gone missing.

 

Not a knight; they spent their entire functions once joining the circle training. No tail placed on them had ever succeeded in taking hold of one of their number. But there were civilians that resided inside the walls of New Crystal City.

 

It had been meant as a safe haven for those wishing to guard the history of Cybertron and her people. Dai and the knights had built it from the ground up to be a replica of it’s name sake, once the original city had fallen to near ruin from forces both inside and out. Raids on the outer walls coupled with dissent from within at the start of the Functionists regime had weakened the city to the point of collapse, and so they’d left to start anew.

 

But when one of the civilians that worked and lived in their little bubble of peace and prosperity returned to them, savaged by butchers calling themselves medics, his face and servos replaced with crude, limited prosthetics, it had been a blow to their collective self. Nytro had been one to take to the circle’s teachings with gusto, though he wasn’t disciplined enough to take to knighthood; he had always believed in the staying on the ‘right path’ as he’d called it. Even if the path he’d chosen, enlightening mechs from other cities about their teachings, had put him directly in the sights of the council.

 

This had still been in the early days of the use of shadowplay and empurata, and they’d only done the latter to him, leaving him fully cognizant of the damage done to him. He’d been dumped at their gates, unconscious but fully fueled and healed, identifiable only by his paint job, and the glyphs he’d had etched into his chest plate not long before he’d left on his last ‘teaching mission’.

 

They’d found him the next morning, frame broken and leaking, on the ground outside the window of his 6th floor apartment. He’d survived, thanks to the quick actions of others, but the damage was done. They were still trying to figure out how to replace the prosthetics wired into his frame in a dangerously unstable way, and until they did, he had to be restrained, watched at all times. Wing had spent his fair share of time with the mech, sitting at his berthside and regaling him with stories of flight, reciting some of the mech’s favorite teachings, but nothing really changed his mood these days. He’d been taken and changed years ago, long enough for him to have lost hope by now, while the medics and scientists all worked hard to come up with a solution that could possibly do any good.

 

But to think that the others, ones who weren’t ever seen again, were tortured? Taken apart like a specimen to be inspected, then twisted to try and fit another bot’s idea of ‘purpose’? Tossed out like trash to be left to the elements and the tender mercies of the beasts that roamed the deserts?

 

And Rung. As old as he had to be, going by those glasses of his, he’d been taken long before the council started in with the sort of tortures Nytro had been subjected to. What nightmares had they discarded along the way to dreaming up their current punishments? How much had he had to endure?

 

His tank, nearly empty, pinched, the remaining fuel roiling and threatening a purge at the thought. He snuck a glance at Rung, who walked by his side with the absentminded smile that seemed to be his default. His field was still withdrawn, and Wing couldn’t imagine he wasn’t hurting from reliving those memories, but his expression was so _cheerful_. They’d done horrible, awful things to him, and they still couldn’t crush his spirit, it seemed. They’d deemed him useless, not worth life, and left him to die, alone and broken. Instead, he’d been accepted into a family that, while altogether unconventional by a city-bot’s standards, was proving how tightly knit they were as a community with every interaction he had with them.

 

Rung caught him staring, and his smile widened. Wing couldn’t help but smile back.

 

He was drawn out of his musings when the terrain shifted, suddenly making walking much more difficult as Rung lead him up a sand dune, and at the top of the crest, they passed a pair of mechs returning to camp.

 

“Cyclonus, Tailgate.” Rung smiled and nodded at the mismatched pair. The larger of the two nodded back while the smaller smiled and waved at them.

 

“There’s nobody else out there right now! Enjoy!” The smaller bot squeaked when his partner lifted him off his pedes and slung him over his shoulder.

 

“Cyclonus! I can walk, you know!” The small bot continued to berate his companion until they were out of sight behind a sand dune.

 

Rung smiled, shaking his helm and pointing towards a shimmer in the sand up ahead, adjusting their course just slightly to head straight for it.

 

“Tailgate and Cyclonus get along much better than you’d think. Cyclonus just knows Tailgate would want to stay and chat, is all. Believe it or not, Tailgate actually stalked _Cyclonus_ and spent years trying to convince him to kidnap him. He didn’t want to stay with his tribe, and he says he knew he was meant to be with Cyclonus from the first time he laid optics on him. I always thought it was sort of romantic.” Rung’s smile turned soft, and it was Wing’s turn to catch the other mech staring at him out of the corner of his optic.

 

“Why not just ask to join the tribe, if he wanted to leave his?” Wing asked. He was trying to understand their way of thinking, but so much seemed to revolve around being kidnapped. At least, most of what he’d been introduced to so far did. First Prowl, and now this comically tiny Tailgate.

 

“To leave your tribe without being taken, or shunned? It’s like turning your back on your family, leaving them to their own devices to survive without your assistance. It’s not done. Even if you aren’t particularly fond of your tribe, which _does_ happen from time to time, you don’t just abandon them willingly. Other tribes will see it as a weakness of character, and why would you trust someone who abandoned their family? What’s to stop them from doing the same to you?”

 

It made sense, in a weird way, Wing had to admit. He had no equivalent to compare it to, but he could understand Rung’s reasoning.

 

Rung had stopped walking while Wing was thinking, and he nearly ran into the other mech’s back, his sensors screaming at him just in the nick of time to avoid a collision. Stretched out in front of them was a pool of water, so clear he could see the individual cracks in the floor beneath. Crystals grew up from the cracks in the ground in clusters, catching the sun and throwing off dazzling prisms of light. Even the breeze was cooler here where it skated over the top of the oasis and brought a hint of clean dampness to his olfactory sensors.

 

A servo on his arm pulled him from his poetic musings, and he looked down to see Rung pulling a handful of cloths and a flat round disc out of storage. The disc turned out to be a collapsible bucket; it’s hidden form revealed by a clever twist of Rung’s fingers. Rung chose not to explain when Wing gave him a questioning little trill of his vocalizer. Instead, he walked up to the edge of the pool, and dipped the bucket in, filling it up and dragging it back over to a grouping of crystals that had been broken and set on their sides a little ways from the water.

 

“Here, sit.” He instructed, pointing to one of the crystals, and stepping up on a taller one behind it. As soon as Wing had sat down, the bucket was upended over his helm and relatively cold water sluiced down his frame, leaking between armor seams and chilling his protoform. Rung laughed at the shocked yelp this ripped from his vocalizer, his plating instinctively clamping down tight in an effort to block any more water from getting in. The wounded look he shot the smaller bot only doubled the amount of laughter as he starting scrubbing at his plating with a rag. It took some coaxing for him to allow his audial flares to spread away from the dubious protection of his helm, and he outright refused to unlock the plates that were clinging together to block any more water from sliding down his neck onto his frame.

 

“If you think this is cold, you would have been in for a shock if you’d just jumped into the oasis, you know. And this way the water stays relatively clean of the oils and coolants we tend to shed, so others can enjoy it after us.”

 

“Doesn’t make it less cold. A warning would have been appreciated.” He shivered; flaring plating as Rung worked so he could clean out the grit that had gathered in his joints and seams just from the walk over.

 

“I’ll let you return the favor if it’ll make you feel better.” Rung was still giggling as he worked, climbing down from his perch and moving around to Wing’s front. His movements were quick and efficient, never lingering where they shouldn’t, despite the little bit of _want_ that the tribesmechs couldn’t quite keep out of the field he’d let expand in tentative little bits since their arrival.

 

“It won’t be the same,” Wing protested, “You’ll be expecting it!”

 

That didn’t stop him from taking a little bit of pleasure from Rung’s shiver when he dumped the bucket over his helm and drenched him from antennae to pede in cold water.

 

When they were both clean, with Wing politely ignoring the heat blooming on Rung’s face from his ministrations, Rung led him over to the pool by the servo. Remembering his warning from before about the chill of the water, Wing eased himself in carefully, mindful of his lack of real balance. Rung followed him step for step, servos outstretched as if he could catch the larger mech should he fall, instead of being dragged down with him.

 

Steam had erupted around them as soon as they’d stepped in, the water hissing and bubbling as it struck heated plating and evaporated instantly. The sensation was _amazing,_ and Wing nearly melted then and there. Sinking down till his aft his the bottom, he rested his helm back against a crystal growth, and offlined his optics to soak in the now much more comfortable warmth of the sun.

 

When Rung didn’t settle in next to him, he onlined his optics again, and nearly laughed. The poor bot had followed him out as far as he could, but now he was standing next to Wing with the water lapping at his shoulders, staring away into the distance with that almost always present flush. Taking pity on him, Wing scooted back until he’d risen up slightly out of the water on a flat stunted crystal, and pulled the bot to sit in his lap, where the water rose to about the midway point on the glass in his chest.

 

“Better?” He asked, smiling at the shock on his face.

  
Rung said nothing, and hid his burning face behind his servos.

 

Wing had figured Rung would jump at the opportunity to be closer to him, if Wing gave him even half a chance. But he caught him off guard, it seemed, and Rung didn’t know how to respond. Leaving the bot to his sudden bout of shyness, Wing leaned his helm back once more. Despite the weight of another straddling his thighs, he fell easily into the calm of meditation, letting the water lapping up against his plating sooth away the stress and worries in his mind, if only for a moment.

 

He wondered if he should be concerned that he was able to fall so quickly into that state, with his captor sitting in his lap, and him bound and weaponless, but he was already mentally exhausted from constantly reminding himself that the kindly mech was supposed to be his ‘enemy’. It just wasn’t in him to be so suspicious, especially to someone who’d shown him a slightly skewed, definitely unfamiliar, brand of kindness and welcome.

 

 _Would it really be so bad?_ He locked his joints at the thought, grateful he hadn’t done the alternative, which would have been to flinch hard enough to probably fling Rung from his lap, and skip him halfway across the pool. He decided not to examine that thought too closely. Rather, he tried to sink back into that calm state of being from before. A clear mind went a long way to good decision-making.

 

They sat that way for a breems, the chill of the water receding. His optics offline, his vents even and measured, he was at peace; and completely ignorant of the heat that was plaguing Rung that had nothing to do with the flush in his face. Or so he let the nomad think. The squirming that started up pulled him out of his trance, and he unshuttered one optic just enough to see Rung with his servos very firmly clasped together above the water. His face was the reddest Wing had seen yet, and he shifted in his lap again, offlining his optics and scrunching his eyebrows together till they threatened to disappear under his goggles.

 

He didn’t know if he was torturing the mech or taking pity on him when he finally broke the silence.

 

“Having trouble getting comfortable?” Okay, that was teasing. Torture it was.

 

“Please let me down.” Rung asked, mortification flooding his field.

 

He did as he was asked, helping Rung back to a spot where his pedes could touch without submerging most of his face. The smaller bot immediately turned away from him, apologizing over his shoulder and making his way to the other side of the pool.

 

Wing followed him, giving him a bit of space but not letting him get out of sight.

 

“Rung?”  


“I’m so sorry.”

 

“Why are you sorry?” Wing smiled at his back. His shoulders were hunched up near to his audials and his antennae had slicked back. The frustration and embarrassment in his field was palpable, and it took considerable strength of will to not reach out and smooth the stress away.

 

“You’re extremely attractive, and I didn’t think you were going to allow me to get so close to you today. I brought you here for the oasis, not for me, and I don’t want you to think I’m pressuring you.” Wing settled where he was, and Rung turned to peer over his shoulder at the sounds of splashing.

 

“I appreciate your concern, Rung. And the oasis is lovely…” He trailed off, not sure if he would regret what he was about to say, but pit if the other bot didn’t look absolutely _miserable_ with the situation.

 

Rung turned, sitting down in water that rose to his chin and watching him cautiously. That expression right there, that was what made the other bot seem to odd. He acted so _civilized,_ Wing could almost forget where they were now that they weren’t surrounded on all sides by the tribe, but that look of caution, only a few steps removed from that of a weary mechanimal watching for any sudden movements, that was a reminder that Rung was _different._ And it made things so much more conflicting.

 

“I’m not … this is a bit difficult to put in words, so I’m sorry if it makes no sense, but I think, had the situation been different, if you and I had met in the city, I would have had no qualms about getting to know you. I don’t want to give you false hope about this…courtship, as it were, but… perhaps we could get to know one another better?” He spoke slowly, trying to gather the thoughts as they came to his processor and form them into some semblance of coherency, but he wasn’t sure he was succeeding.

 

Rung blinked, optics shuttering rapid fire as he chased the tangle of words around into a semblance of something understandable. When that moment of understanding dawned on his faceplates, Wing couldn’t help but smile.

 

“You aren’t… Are you saying you’re going to give me a chance?” Rung spoke so quietly, as if afraid that saying the words to loudly would make them unreal, and Wing had to lean in to hear him.

 

“I’m saying…I’m saying you were honest with me about something painful from your past, and that means a lot. And it put some things in perspective, both on a personal level for me, and also some of the teachings that I follow as a knight. So, I suppose, yes, I’m saying I’ll give you a chance. No promises, though.” Rung launched himself out of the water with a splash, wrapping his arms around Wing’s neck and laughing. It was infections, and Wing found himself laughing along soon enough.

 

Rung pushed away still giggling, pulling off his goggles and wiping at the cleanser that had gathered underneath. Seeing his face unencumbered by the bulky accessory for the first time, Wing was speechless, laughter dying in his vocalizer with a little bite of static.

 

The tribesmechs looked up, tilting his head, twitching his antennae and making a curious little noise at Wing’s stare.

 

“Sorry.” Now it was Wing’s turn to flush, turning his head away and scratching at an audial in embarrassment.

 

“Hmm? What’s wrong?” Rung had moved closer, and Wing could feel him probing at his EMF for clues as to the sudden silence.

 

“Nothing, I’m sorry.” Wing reset his vocalizer, the little click a distraction from his embarrassment. He hadn’t expected the mech to look so _different_ without the bulky goggles. His face was so much more defined without the softened round edges of the lenses, and his optics were… intense was the only word that came to his processor.

 

Rung shrugged, and grabbed his servos, tugging him back to shore.

 

“What? We’re leaving already?” Wing pouted, embarrassment forgotten at the sudden exodus from heaven.

 

“Sorry. But it’s not good to stay in too long. The water magnifies the sun, stay in too long and your paint will soften and pull away, and the nanites in the plating will get really sensitive. Best to enjoy an oasis in small doses, it’s no fun to deal with the aftereffects.” Rung explained, pulling yet more cloths from…somewhere…how many compartments did this bot have? “In fact, we stayed in a little too long as it is, I think. It doesn’t take long out here, there’s nothing blocking the sun after all.”

 

Wing hated to admit it, but Rung was probably right. His plating was starting to itch along his top most pinions and the top of his chest plate. He submitted to Rung’s servos as the cloth was drug over his plating, absorbing the remaining moisture. As if he could read Wing’s processor, Rung let the cool damp cloth lay on the spots that had taken a little too much sun. The sigh of relief that escaped his vocalizer was unintended, but Rung just smiled, and urged him to sit down on the crystal patch again.

 

“Soak up the sun for a few minutes, let it dry the water under your armor. Wet sand is even worse than dry sand in your joints, then we’ll head back to camp. Maybe…find you something to fuel up on?” The question ended on a worried note, and Wing could understand why when his tank rumbled.

 

“We’ll see if I can stomach something.” He finally said, smiling at Rung but cringing internally at the upcoming battle. How he was going to keep it down at all was a mystery he wasn’t sure had a solution, but he was hungry enough to try.

 

Rung smiled, or was he still smiling? Wing didn’t think he’d stopped smiling since he’d admitted he was going to give the other mech a chance. “We’ll figure something out. It took me a while to adapt, too.” He sat next to Wing, pressing into his side and leaning his head against his arm.

 

They both leaned back; soaking up the sun while their protoforms dried, and Wing was nearly in recharge when Rung finally decided it was time to leave.

 

The walk back was spent in silence, but unlike on the way out, both mechs came back to camp feeling a lot lighter, and it had nothing to do with the sand Wing had been able to shed from his frame.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Dai Atlas was pacing his ‘office’ when Axe came in. The room, no more than a closet really, that Dai had allowed assigned to him for paperwork and meetings and the various day to day tasks that came with caring for a city.

 

“You’re making me dizzy.” Axe said, sitting in the uncomfortable chair and watching as the other mech made a new circuit of the room. 4 paces to the wall from his desk, about face, 9 paces to the opposite wall, about face, 5 paces to his desk, shuffle through paperwork as though he had any intention of doing it, start over again.

 

“They say we aren’t allowed out unless we’re escorting someone.” Dai slumped in his own chair, suddenly a puppet with his strings cut. Lifeless save the twitch of fingers, he said nothing else, but waved one servo in the direction of a form stamped with the council’s seal.

 

“So we find someone needing escorted. We’ll send more mechs than necessary, and we can break off once we get out there.” Axe suggested, skimming over the letter with the standard ‘we regret to inform you’ s and ‘tragic loss’ s. He very nearly crumpled the holoframe in his servo at the third mention of their ‘tragic loss of a fellow patriot’. Wing wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be.

 

“You think they won’t know what we did when we get back?”

 

“Dai, I can’t sit here and do nothing while Wing’s out there somewhere, possibly hurt, definitely not safe. If you can’t do anything, I’ll go alone.”

 

“No, you won’t. We’ll find a way, Axe. We always do.”


	10. Chapter 10

Rung held the flap of the tent aside for the taller mech, and slipped in behind him before anyone could compete for his attention. A quick message to Ratchet confirmed his suspicions that there were no cubes of fuel available, and he dug out one of the jars while he thought. There had to be a way to make it easier to eat. By the time he’d eaten, he’d been so hungry, his tank so warped from lack of fuel, that he’d been able to consume the food without a fuss (though not without a bit of pain). He really didn’t want his mate to have to go that long without, though.

 

The knight smiled at him from where he’d made himself comfortable in the nest of furs, and held out his servos. For the jar, or for Rung, he wasn’t sure.

 

“You’re over thinking. I won’t know if I can do this till I try it.” Rung sat in front of him, holding the jar while he dipped tentative digits into the energon bath and fished for a piece. The look on his face was almost painful, a mix of disgust and dread poorly masked by a grimace masquerading as a smile.

 

“Maybe don’t inspect it so closely?” Rung suggested, watching him hold it up to optic level and study the dripping chunk pinched between his fingers.

 

“Probably for the best.” He agreed, and popped it in his mouth. The act of chewing was torturous; Rung remembered that much from his time before the desert. The only solids city mechs ate were gelled treats. Being made solely from energon, they were still fairly soft and melted quickly. The food they relied on in the desert, on the other servo, was tougher to chew, especially for someone not used to the action.

 

It was a tense silence he sat in, waiting to see if the mech would be able to hold down the food once he swallowed. However, despite the pinched face and shuttered optics, he didn’t purge. Relief blossomed in Rung’s spark at the queasy smile he was gifted, and let his shoulders sag with the release of tension he wasn’t aware he’d been carrying.

 

“It’s …not so bad.” The jet laughed, wiping at his mouth with the back of his servo. “Tastes like this mix we have back at the citadel, almost.”

 

“You’re doing better than I’d expected.” Rung dared to lay a hand on one bright knee stabilizer, and his spark _soared_ when the other didn’t flinch away or make a face. Instead, he shrugged.

 

“I’m trying very hard to not think about what just went down my intake, in favor of enjoying some fuel in my tank.” The admission was accompanied by a self-depreciating laugh, and a servo scratching at those elegant flared audials.

 

“Then I won’t say any more, and keep the jar just out of sight.” Rung laughed as well. Doing as he’d promised, he sat still and held the jar under the knight’s line of sight until he’d managed to eat another few pieces and called it quits with a hand over his tank.

 

“It’s surprisingly filling,” He said, letting his amazement show on his face while he rubbed at his tank, “There couldn’t have been a full cubes worth of energon in what I ate!”

 

“Well, no, but there’s a good deal of filler that comes with the energon that your tank will break down for nutrients.” Rung said, choosing his words very carefully. He’d known another city mech once, one that had been brought from another tribe by his mate to see Ratchet when he fell ill, who’d said he’d purged the first few times he’d tried eating their food just from hearing words like ‘meat’, ‘flesh’, ‘mechanimal’.

 

His mech just nodded, drumming his fingers against his abdominal plating in a mindless little rhythm.

 

“You said we were moving on tomorrow?”

 

“Yea, we’ll be moving further south. It’s the time for migration, hunting is getting scarce this far north.” He let his fingers play over that shiny stabilizer, gesturing the direction they were traveling with his free servo.

 

The majority of animals that they hunted traveled seasonally, dictated by the availability of food. They ate until their territory was diminished, and then headed south for the second half of the year. By the time their territory there was lacking in food sources, the northern territories had regenerated to support them again. Smaller animals, scavengers mostly, might stay year round in a single general area, but the big game did not. They had to follow the food, and so did the tribes.

 

He explained this, complete with hand gestures, and the other mech nodded.

 

“There’ll be scholars in the cities that would be ecstatic to hear you say that. They’ve been arguing over religious versus practical needs for the constant moving back and forth all the nomads do.”

 

“People really think we do this for religion?” Rung snickered, hiding behind his servo and rolling his optics.

 

The flyer shrugged and nodded.

 

“Some do. We don’t know much about you. Didn’t people wonder about the nomads when you were in the city?”

 

“Probably? I don’t remember.” Rung didn’t mean anything by his words, it was just a statement of fact for him, but the other mech went silent at the mention of his tampered memories.

 

The silence wasn’t awkward though, which was surprising. The jet didn’t apologize or fret, he didn’t get upset at the reminder that the council had tormented Rung in horrendous ways. He just let the subject drop, and they lapsed into a peaceful silence. He turned around, and leaned back against his (hopefully) soon-to-be mate, and was content to spend a few moments enjoying the calm. The peace was broken all too soon as the others tank gurgled, and his backrest nearly leapt out of his plating. That started a round of laughter that had Rung rolling in their nest, optical fluid streaking down his cheeks. Between giggles and gasps he tried to explain that it was a normal noise, just his frame breaking down the food into useable fuel. The explanation was accepted with another brilliant, albeit pained, smile. He was pulled back up into his lap, and he tilted his helm back to watch the knight’s face.

 

Careful servos pushed his goggles back, and thumbs swiped at the trails of cleanser on his face, smoothing any traces of it away.

 

Their optics locked and Rung found it hard to look away. He pushed himself up until he could reach the other, pressing a short, chaste kiss to his mouth.

 

He drew back when the other did nothing in response, blushing and staring down at their pedes.

 

“Sorry, I –“ Bound servos dropped down around his helm, and one caught his chin, tilting him back until their lips could meet again.

 

When they parted this time, he turned around to face the other. The smile he got was softer, but no less bright, and those servos rested around his waist.

 

“Again, I think you’re over thinking. I said I'd give it a shot, didn’t I?” A quick peck to the crest between his eyebrows punctuated the question, and Rung was quick to steal another kiss now that he knew he wouldn’t be rebuffed for it.

 

He could feel the heat building between them, and ducked out from beneath the other mech’s arms to sit on the furs again. He wasn’t going to push his good fortune now. As if he could read his processor, the jet grinned, rubbing at the flush on his cheeks.

 

“Rung?”

 

“Hmmm?”

 

“Your medic…he said something, when he was in here the other day. I wonder if you could clarify it? He said not to give you my name until I was ready to commit. What did he mean by that?”

 

Oh Primus, Rung thought. He hadn’t realized Ratchet bought into the old ways. Then again, he was bonded to Drift, who followed the old teachings almost reverently. It was an old idea, that your mate would reveal to you their name when they were ready to come together with you in union.

 

It didn’t really have much bearing in the tribe, considering half the couples knew each other from sparkling-hood. But Drift had caught himself an outsider, and apparently thought it was a sign from Primus to stick to the old ways. And had taught Ratchet the same.

 

“It’s…an obsolete concept. Your name is important, and the idea is that you give it to your mate when you’re ready to accept them. I think Ratchet and Drift are about the only two in the whole tribe who actually upheld that tradition. Jazz knew Prowl’s name long before they came together. Same with Cyclonus and Tailgate. And…well, really most everyone in the camp, actually.”

 

“So…if I tell you my name, I won’t be agreeing to bonding right here and now?”

 

Rung’s spark skipped a beat, and he caught himself staring up at the mech, slack jawed. Even though he didn’t stick to tradition for name gifting, it was still a special thing. He hadn’t thought the mech would tell him his designation for a while yet. It seemed the knight was determined to surprise him today.

 

When the knight just continued to watch him expectantly with a patient little smile curving his mouth, and he just had _so many smiles_ , Rung wasn’t sure he’d ever see the same smile twice at this point! Rung cleared his vocalizer with a screech of feedback, blinking up at the flyer and shaking his head.

 

“No, um…no. You won’t be agreeing to anything. Only if you want to, though. I don’t want you to feel pressured, I-“

 

Wing tapped his cheek, still smiling, and pressed a quick kiss to his crest again.

 

“Wing. My designation is Wing.”

 

~~~~~

 

Axe looked over the caravan to Dai Atlas, a towering shadow up at the front with the merchant.

 

“I don’t understand, why did we warrant such a large contingent of knights, sir?” The civilian walking next to him drew his attention away from Dai’s stiff back. She was a short little thing, her helm only reaching up to about his waist, and looked up at him curiously.

 

“Not all of us are for your caravan,” Axe said, choosing his words carefully. He couldn’t tell the _truth;_ if it got back to the council, they’d have quite the welcome home waiting for them when they returned. But he couldn’t _lie_ either. “We have a separate mission, we’re only tagging along until our courses no longer run parallel. Then part of our group will split off from yours and go our own way.”

 

As soon as they were out of sight of the city walls, Dai gestured for Axe and the others to step aside.

 

“Safe travels on your journey.” Axe said to the civilian, bowing his head and stepping aside. She waved at him and wished him luck, hurrying to catch up with another traveler to pass the time chatting.

 

Dai Atlas waited until they were out of sight before bringing up the holo map and marking off locations.

 

“Without knowing _which_ tribe it was that attacked that caravan, we can’t be sure of which direction they’re traveling in. So we’ll split into teams. Everyone has their comm boosters?” Out in the desert, with so much distance between mechs, signals couldn’t boost themselves off of other bots systems on their way to their intended destination. Dai was hoping that the boosters would fix the problem, so they could keep in contact. Hopefully they didn’t need to travel _too_ far apart before someone found Wing.

 

With the caravan gone and nobody around to overhear, they went over the plan one last time. They’d travel along the routes most used by tribes heading away from the general area of the attack, and when they found Wing, they would send signal to the others. The hope was that they would be able to take their fellow knight back without a struggle, but in case of a fight, the idea of backup heading their way was a comforting thought.

 

“Be careful out there.” Axe said, as they all turned to head off in their assigned directions.

 

Axe and Dai Atlas headed south. They were going to get Wing back. Now it was just a matter of patience and no small amount of luck. The desert stretched out before them in an unending sea of sand, and somewhere out there was their lost comrade.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a mention of pretty severe injuries to a child in this chapter, just as a heads up. If you aren't comfortable with reading about it, skip from the mention of desert cats down to the last few paragraphs. It's brief, and I don't think it's really super graphic, but it's still happening to a kid, so just wanted to put that warning out there!

The next morning greeted the two mechs with a rush of noise and light. Rung rolled over, stretching his arms up over his head and feeling something pop back into alignment with a satisfied groan, while Wing grumbled, trying to pull one of the furs over his helm to block out the interruptions to his recharge.

 

They’d stayed up late into the night, sharing kisses and swapping stories back and forth about their lives before they met. Despite the lack of solid recharge, Rung felt like he was floating as he climbed to his pedes and set about packing up what he could. He could afford to let Wing rest a little longer.

 

Starting at the far edge from the nest, he started folding up the floor mats and packing them away in the crates with their food jars. Once the crates were padded sufficiently, he took up a longer section of mats that had been sewn together, and revealed the hastily dug trench that their weapons resided in. The massive sword that Rung had struggled with for nearly 20 minutes that first day to remove from Wing’s back almost seemed to glare at him through that bright gem in the hilt, as if it was unhappy with it’s lackluster housing these past few days.

 

Ignoring the strange feeling of being judged by an inanimate object, he rolled Wing’s weapons up in the mats, laying his own staff to the side to be carried with him while they travelled. Finished with anything he could do while Wing still slept, he crawled back into the nest and sat cross-legged near his helm.

 

“Wing?” He tapped the other mech’s arm, trying to draw his attention gently away from sleep. Wing just rolled over, whining a bit and burrowing deeper into the nest. Rung couldn’t hide the snort of laughter that escaped his vocalizer, but he coughed into his servo anyway. If nothing else, at least he was hiding the smile that accompanied it.

 

“Wing, come on. It’s time to get moving. I’ve done all I can do without you getting up.” Wing threw the cover over his head down and glared at the ceiling of the tent for a long moment. Rolling his helm to the side, the glare softened into a look of sleep rumpled discontent when he saw Rung kneeling in the furs.

 

“How can you people _do this?_ I thought we woke up early at the citadel…” He freed himself from the covers, stretching his servos up to the ceiling and flaring his pinions. Rung nearly protested when he laid back down, but then he was bringing his palms flat to the ground above his helm and pushing up till he was on all fours, with his spine arched, body a graceful curve above the ground.

 

Dropping his shoulders down, he put his palms on his lower back, kicking his legs up over his head, pedes pointing to the ceiling. Rung scooted back, not wanting to interfere with…whatever it was that Wing was doing. When he brought his legs back down, it was slow, controlled, graceful, and he rolled right up into a seated position, legs crossed and palms resting on the floor between his thighs.

 

“What…um, what was that?” Rung finally asked, when Wing showed no signs of offering an explanation for the acrobatics performance he’d just done.

 

“Stretching?” Wing smiled, lifting his servos and tugging at the rope between them. “I could show you a lot more…but…well, my servos are tied at the moment.” They both laughed, Rung leaning in to press his forehelm to Wing’s shoulder.

 

“You know I can’t do that…at least, not now. But maybe at night we can take them off. It’s not like you’re planning to run away, right?” It was said teasingly, but Wing apparently read the tiny bit of doubt in Rung’s field. His smile widened, and he shook his helm, looping his arms over Rung’s helm and tugging at his waist until he shifted into Wing’s lap.

 

“I don’t see a need to go running off right now, no.” Rung relaxed into the hold, tucking his helm under Wing’s chin and soaking up the sleep warmth still radiating from the flight frame beneath him. “I would like to at least send a message back to the citadel though, at some point. Or better yet, take you to meet them.” Rung tensed in his hold, and Wing rushed to elaborate.

 

“No, no, no. Rung, calm down. I’m not asking you to move into a city. I just want to let _my_ family know I’m okay. And I _would_ like for you to meet them one day.” Servos smoothed down Rung’s sides, coaxing the tension out carefully.

 

“I don’t know how to get a message back to them, Wing. Our internal comms don’t have the strength to reach that far, and I can say without a doubt that there isn’t a single flyer out there willing to take a message to a city. It’s hard enough getting them to run messages back and forth to other tribes.” Wing slumped, and Rung twisted to put his servos on his nacelles, stroking at the pinion joints. “But we’ll figure something out. Somehow. In the meantime, we need to finish packing. The tribe’ll be ready to move on soon.”

 

He guided the subdued jet on bundling up the nest, packing it away and dragging the crates and bundled swords outside. Rung had been debating since he started packing, and finally halted Wing just before they stepped outside.

 

“I know you were really upset when you realized your weapons were gone…” He drew back the bundle of fabric to reveals the hilt of the massive sword, “You can’t carry them openly, not yet. That’s the tribe’s rule, and not a bad one. Outsiders being allowed to walk around armed just spells trouble sometimes. Bu~ut…if you wanted to carry the tent frame, which gets tied into this bundle, there’s nobody who’ll know you’re doing more than pulling a fair share of the work.” Wing laughed at the saucy little wink Rung gave him, and kissed his cheek.

 

“Thank you, Rung.” He took the bundle carefully, pressing one servo to the hilt of the sword and shuttering his optics.

 

Rung waited patiently for him to finish before stepping out into the pale watery light of the dawning sun. Wing stood behind him, hugging the bundle to his chest and taking in the flurry of activity around them. Most of the tents were disassembled already, or well on their way to being disassembled, and already there were mechs waiting at the edge of the camp with their belongings in neat little piles.

 

Pointing to the patch of ground that the crates had been drug to, Rung instructed Wing to set down the bundle of mats, and showed him very quickly how to break down the tent. Laying the covering down on the ground and folding it over, Wing helped line up the support poles and the sword bundle, and then roll the whole thing up. For being so spacious, Rung had compressing it down to a portable size down to an art.

 

“Eyebrows! Shiny!” Rung stumbled under the sudden weight as Whirl draped himself over the small bot’s shoulders.

 

“Hello Whirl. You’re all packed and ready to go?” Rung ducked out from under the spindly mech’s shadow, keeping himself between the rotor and Wing. The knight had tensed as soon as he heard the other mech’s voice, and Rung felt it better safe than sorry to keep some distance between the two until Wing had warmed up to his friend.

 

“Been ready. Up with sun, unlike some lazy bots today…” Rung flushed when Whirl’s single optic zeroed in on the bindings still around Wing’s wrists.

 

“You’re being extremely nosey this morning, perhaps you’d care to put that energy to better use and help me load these crates? Wing offered to carry the tent today, isn’t that nice of him?” The look he gave Whirl had the mech hunching down, nodding silently.

 

“Wing? Whirl and I are going to drag these over to get loaded up, I’ll be right back.” Whirl had already grabbed one of the trunks, and was trying to loop a claw through the handle of the second when Rung turned around. Chasing him off, he took the second for himself, and followed the once again energetic mech.

 

“Soooo….” Whirl drew the sound out ridiculously long, as soon as they were out of hearing range of the knight.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Not do it yet?” The rotor cackled at the instant blush that flooded his face.

 

“ _Whirl!_ ” He hissed, thumping the mech’s thigh with his free servo. The mech feigned a limp, still laughing.

 

When Whirl got his laughter under control, trailing off into little chuckles, he pinned Rung with that stare of his, studying him. Rung couldn’t stop the fidgeting that always prompted, waiting for the mech to speak again.

 

“Seriously, eyebrows. He good mate?”

 

Rung wanted to give an instant yes, but he appreciated Whirl’s concern, and gave the question a bit of thought first.

 

“I think he _will_ be. We haven’t gotten that far yet. But he’s very nice, even though this isn’t his way. He’s so cheerful, and thoughtful…He agreed to give us a chance.” Rung was beaming, his cheeks hurt from the stretch of his smile, but he couldn’t help it. Whirl rolled his optic, and _how_ did a mech with one optic manage to convey so much sarcasm in one movement? He hauled the cargo up onto Flatbed’s trailer, and stood back for Rung to do the same.

 

Once they’d both moved out of the way of other mechs waiting to load up their possessions, Whirl knelt in the sand, optic to optics, and put his clawed servos very carefully on Rung’s shoulders.

 

“Hope he’s good to you. Eyebrows’ deserves happy things. But he hurts you? Whirl makes sure nobot ever finds the body.” Rung opened his mouth to protest, and one claw pinched his lip plates shut so ridiculously carefully. Mechs thought Whirl was disabled, with the claws instead of servos, but he had such control over them it made Rung’s processor spin some days. “No arguing. Whirl remembers what Rung like when he found him. Won’t see happen again.”

 

Whirl had been the one to stumble across him, after he’d been ejected from the council’s tender ministrations. Why the half insane warrior had felt the need to bring him back to the tribe, and nurse him to health mostly on his own was something Whirl had never explained to Rung. Those long weeks being carried around on a litter much like the one he’d brought Wing home on, force fed gelled energon, and patched up little by little, those were days he’d never forget, no matter how long he lived. He’d been too weak to so much as lift a servo in the beginning, and Whirl had borne it all with a patience nobody had known he had in him. If it weren’t for him, Rung had no doubt he would have been dead in hours, and for all his faults and eccentricies, he’d never trade his friend for the world.

 

The threat and promise brought tears to his optics, and he threw his arms around the other mech’s neck before Whirl could escape. Hugging him tight, despite the squawking protest, he hid his face until he felt stable again.

 

When he stepped back, Whirl stood, quickly taking himself out of hugging range and rubbing under his optic with one claw.

 

“We _will_ work on the first person pronouns Whirl…” Rung said, teasing to break the embarrassed silence the other mech had fallen into.

 

“Yea yea….get back to shiny. All alone, like sparkling sitting in the sand.” Whirl could tease as good as he got, pointing to the white mech standing like a tree in the middle of the whirlwind of movement, optics wide to take in as much as he could at once.

 

Rung ran back over to Wing, dodging and ducking around others in his way, and grabbed his arm as soon as he was close.

 

“C’mon! We’re moving out, don’t want to get left behind!” Wing stared at him, obviously noticing the tear tracks on his face, but said nothing. Instead, he just smiled and followed him to the coalescing group of mechs, all gathered around a large grey bot covered in permanent carvings mimicking the war paint.

 

“Megatron.” Rung whispered when Wing leaned down to ask, “He’s chief, takes care of the tribe, decides when to move and where to.”

 

The massive mech said nothing. Raising one servo, he pointed south, and like a well oiled machine, the entire tribe moved as one, and set out for their next campsite. Wing chanced a look over his shoulder, wondering if Axe was okay, and if anyone was looking for him, but Rung drew his attention back with a tug, smiling up at him.

 

~~~~~

 

Axe waited while Dai inspected the little remains of the caravan. They’d not left much behind when they’d retreated back to the city, and what was left told little to nothing. As they moved on, though, they came across the carcasses of mechanimals recently stripped to the struts, not yet bleached and pitted by the sun and wind.

 

“Think it’s them?” Axe asked, picking up a rib and looking it over. It couldn’t be more than a week old, which would line up time wise with how long Wing had been gone.

 

“Most likely.” Dai allowed, watching him toss the strut in an arch far out into the sand.

 

“What’re we going to do if we don’t find him?” That was the one possibility the other knight had mentioned no plans for. Retribution wasn’t an option, but it was hard to imagine life without the ever-upbeat knight.

 

“The swords have given no signs of Wing’s demise, so we’ll continue to operate under the assumption he’s alive and captured, until we’re proven wrong.” Dai Atlas transformed now that they had a sign they were heading the right way. He waited until Axe joined him before moving on, just slowly enough to keep an optic out for signs on the ground, keeping to their southern heading.

 

~~~~~

 

The sun reflected off their plating as they walked, and Rung kept Wing distracted with chatter about the tribe, and the hunting grounds they were headed towards, in an effort to keep his processor of the heat warnings he said kept popping up on his HUD.

 

Whirl pranced by them, pedes kicking out sprays of sand as he went, and Wing looked over at him.

 

“What’s his story?”

 

Rung shrugged, shifting the strap holding the tent bundle to his back. They’d been swapping back and forth so Wing could let his flight panels breath when they started to overheat from being covered up.

 

“I don’t know. He was born in this tribe, so he’s been here longer than I have. I’ve asked him, but he’s never wanted to say.”

 

“He seems to care about you.” Wing watched the rotor spook Tailgate ahead of them. The gangly mech laughed uproariously while the little mech berated him, one servo pressed to his chest over his spark chamber. The laughter stopped when Cyclonus loomed over his little mate, glaring at Whirl with a promise of pain in his optics that Wing and Rung could see from where they were.

 

In a flash, Whirl was back with them, inserting himself between them with an invisible grin.

 

“Eyebrows, heard desert cats earlier. Wanna hunt?”

 

“Desert cats?” Wing seemed interested, but Whirl cut in before Rung could speak.

 

“Mean. Big, and mean. Sharp teeth, sharp claws. Rip city mech to shreds, easy.” Whirl held his claws up over his head, miming a large predator, his pedipalps wiggling in an imitation of teeth.

 

Rung pulled one thin arm down, rolling his optics and shaking his head.

 

“They’re dangerous, but not because they’re big. They blend into the sand really well, their hides are nearly identical in color. So they can sneak up on you, and they’ve got enough weight to pin you if you aren’t-“

 

Like some sort of cruel underline to his explanation, a shriek rent the air just then. Whirl and Rung were running before Wing could ask what was going on, weapons in servos. Rung’s spark was spinning like crazy in his chest, all too familiar with the snarls that now accompanied the crying.

 

The desert cats were closer than Whirl had thought. Warriors were rushing from the front and back of the group, all focused on the massive beast pinning one of the sparklings to the ground. Whirl leapt on its back as soon as he was in range, driving his spear into the weak point below its scruff. It screeched, rearing back and shaking the rotormech away. Rung let his own momentum carrying him on his knees under the cat’s belly, stabbing up with his staff and letting the weapon go in favor of rolling over with the wounded, sobbing sparkling in his arms. Other mechs had already swarmed the fight, and it was over as quickly as it had begun.

 

Ratchet rolled Rung over, pulling the sparkling from him and shouting for the assembled crowd to make some slagging room already! Stormchaser, the little seekerling who’d asked Wing to fly with him, had lost most of the volume and power behind his cries. Now he was reduced to little gasps and hiccups as his creators crowded the medic, his chest ripped open to expose sparking wires and gushing energon lines. And worst of all, visible slivers of his spark through the damaged chamber cover.

 

“Rung! Get the weld kit, _now!_ ” Ratchet snapped at him, bringing his attention away from the wounded sparkling and pointing with one stained servo at Flatbed, who idled as close by as he could be without transforming and dumping everything he carried.

 

He stumbled over his own pedes before he got steady, racing for the boxes with Ratchet’s medic symbol on them. Wing met him, lifting him up onto the platform and climbing up after him.

 

Ripping the lid off the first crate, he turned to look at Wing.

  
“You’re looking for a kit, about this big by this big, has a torch inside. I’ll find the patch sheets.” He cut Wing’s tether without preamble, slicing through the cable with a small blade from a hidden slot in his wrist and opening another crate without a word.

 

When they both had what they were looking for, Wing jumped down and took the supplies Rung passed to him, running ahead of him without waiting for instruction. Rung was hot on his heels, taking the kit from the knight as soon as he’d stopped. He passed the cleaning compound and a cloth to Ratchet, and moved around to kneel on Stormchaser’s other side. Wordlessly, he reached in, replacing Ratchet’s servos with his own to clamp down on the ruptured line while the medic cleaned the area and prepped his tools. Wing stood by his shoulder, wordless comfort and calm in his EM field despite the situation. He was thankful for the support, focusing on keeping his servos from trembling.

 

“Stormchaser, look at me.” Wing knelt, one servo touching Rung’s back, the other in the sand next to the sparkling. Rung listened with half an audial as Wing spoke, the majority of his processor busy with the instructions Ratchet was throwing at him.

 

“There’s no need to panic. They’ll make you better, and then we’ll go flying together, right? I still haven’t gotten a chance to fly with you.” Stormchaser whimpered, ignoring Wing in favor of watching Ratchet bring the mini torch closer.

 

“Hey, come on now, focus on me, little one.” Wing leaned in, using the servo that had been touching Rung to tilt the sparkling’s helm away from the procedure. “It’ll be over quicker if you don’t look, trust me.”

 

Rung quickly lost track of the conversation, shutting out the sounds of crying and shouting, the smell of burning energon and heated metal. His servos were starting to shake despite his best efforts, and it was with relief that he removed them from the tiny little chest cavity at Ratchet’s demand.

 

When Stormchaser’s cries had died down to nothing, and Ratchet induced medical stasis to finish patching up the smaller, less life threatening injuries, Rung stumbled away.

 

He’d just finished purging his tank well away from the jumble of bodies, on the other side of the cat’s carcass, when he heard someone approach. Even so, he still jumped when a servo turned him around, pulling him into an all-encompassing hug. The field that smothered him with the sensation of _safe/calm_ was Wing’s, and he shivered, wrapping his arms as far around his knight’s torso as he could reach and holding on for dear life.

 

“Ratchet’s going to go talk to Megatron, he doesn’t want to move the sparkling today.” Wing’s voice rumbled through his chest and into Rung as he spoke, tightening his grip around his back. Rung nodded into the armor he had his face pressed against.

 

He stayed like that, hidden in Wing’s embrace, while they all waited for orders. The entire tribe was respectfully quiet, save for the crying of a single carrier.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are descriptions in here of cleaning game, and more descriptions of Stormchaser's injuries, just as a heads up. If you want to skip that, when you hit the first line break scroll down until you get to the third one.

The tents had been rebuilt, although most everything else had been left in the middle of the camp. Megatron had agreed they wouldn’t be going anywhere for the afternoon, as worried about the wounded Stormchaser as the rest of the tribe. Despite his imposing personality, Wing was pleasantly surprised to find him pacing in front of Ratchet’s tent that had been built directly around the medic and his charge. The massive nomad had spared him a nod, pointedly looking at his freed servos as Wing walked by with the tent bundle. Wing returned the nod with a smile, keeping an eye on Rung.

 

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

 

Megatron seemed shocked by the question, studying him long and hard. Ultimately, the larger mech shook his helm.

 

“Take care of your mate. The medic does what he can. The rest? Up to the sparkling’s will to live.” His almost flippant comment did nothing to conceal the _worry/anger/impotence/RAGE_ in his field, but Wing wisely backed away.

 

Following Rung, he set down the bundle and started unpacking when the small mech mechanically pointed to a free spot. He hadn’t said a word since he’d cut Wing’s bindings, and it was starting to really worry the knight. What he wanted to do was pull the tiny little warrior into his arms and curl around him and protect him from everything that was upsetting him, because the _numb_ in his field was so _wrong_. But first he needed to get their shelter put up.

 

Easier said than done.

 

“This is awful.” Wing did a double take, balancing part of the drooping tent across his helm and peering out from under the fabric at the rotor standing next to Rung with his claws on his hips. He was pretty sure that was the closest the other mech had come to a full sentence in his presence.

 

“I’m sorry? I’ve not done this before, as I’m _sure_ you know.” He grinned, fingers tightening around one whippy tent pole that refused to stay where he put it.

 

Whirl stepped up and pushed the whole construct over into a pile on the ground.

 

“Back to eyebrows now. Whirl’ll fix.”

 

Wing blinked, confused by the offer, and Whirl shooed him away again irritably. Turning his back on the grumbling mech, Wing walked back over to where Rung sat silently on one of the many crates they’d finished unloading from Flatbed. Eyeing the small space left on the crate top, he nudged at Rung till the smaller mech stood, and pulled him down to the sand with him. Once he had Rung situated to his liking in his lap, he folded his arms around the shaking frame and tucked the orange helm under his chin.

 

When the tent was finished, Whirl left without a word for the other side of camp. He was gone before Wing even had a chance to say thank you. He made a note to hunt the rotor down later to voice his gratitude, and nudged at Rung until he stood. It was quick work to drag the crates inside and lay out enough floor covering to put the nest of furs on.

 

Rung ducked in before he had a chance to retrieve him, and Wing guided him down onto the pile of furs, nestling in behind him and wrapping him up in a full body grasp, one leg draped over slim hips, helm cradled in the crook of one arm, the other wrapped around his middle with his servo splayed over the glowing glass window to his spark.

 

Pushing as much _calm/comfort/safety_ into his field as he could, he hooked his chin over the crest of Rung’s helm and rode out the shaking that rattled the small frame. The mech in his arms didn’t make a sound, silent shivers the only sign he was even awake as he let go of all the panic and fear and worry he’d been holding in since the moment Stormchaser had first screamed. His EM field washed over Wing in an overwhelming wave of grief, and all he could do was hold on and wait it out.

 

~~~~~

 

Rung had drifted off in Wing’s arms with tear tracks cutting through the dust on his face where the cleanser had finally leaked out from under his goggles.

 

Wing laid him down in the furs, tucking him in and pulling the goggles off. Having no cleaning cloths on him, he settled for the corner of one fur, daubing at the relaxed faceplates and cleaning away the traces of tears as best as he could. Setting the goggles carefully out of the way on one of the crates, he pressed a kiss to Rung’s forehead before rising to his pedes and stepping outside.

 

He sat down on the other side of the tent, paying no mind to the sand sifting into his plating, and watched the camp at work. Rung had completely shut down on him after the immediate crisis was over. Why was that? The little nomad seemed so unflappable in every other aspect so far as Wing had seen. So what was so different now? The only answer that he could come up with was because Stormchaser was so young, but it didn’t feel right.

 

He looked around camp, still trying to figure out what had sent Rung over like that and saw Whirl off by the desert cat, doing…something.

 

Despite the lurch in his tank, he climbed to his pedes and walked up next to him, watching curiously as Whirl rolled the animal onto its back and slit it from hip joint to collar fairing without preamble. Half processed energon rose in the back of Wing’s intake as the mechanimal’s internals were exposed.

 

Whirl chose then to look over his shoulder at the knight, claw deep in the mechanimal’s torso.

 

“Yea?”

 

“Can I help?” Wing managed to force out around the taste of sick in his mouth. He felt slightly better at the look of utter shock on the other mechs featureless face. That single yellow optic blinked rapid fire at him, its owner processing the question and undoubtedly reprocessing it just to be sure.

 

Finally, just as Wing thought of turning back to Rung’s tent and letting the whole thing drop, Whirl shrugged and motioned with his free claw for Wing to kneel down next to him.

 

The next few minutes were spent listening to the mech instruct him as he carefully removed things best left unnamed and stored them in a small stasis chest. Whirl took over removing the edible bits, showing Wing where to make incisions that would allow them to collect the liquid fuel. He dutifully swapped out jars as they filled from the two little wounds the rotor had made with one sharpened claw. No more than a pinch from the claw tips had split the cat’s armor plating, and Wing had seen him handle glass and sparklings alike with those same claws with nary a problem. His respect for the mech rose as he watched him work.

 

The rotor was covered in energon half way up his forearms, cutting into an animal in a way that still made him feel a little woozy. Despite that, or maybe because of that, he was methodical, careful, and _patient,_ the erratic behavior he displayed every other time they’d been anywhere near each other nowhere to be found. He was caught in an internal debate, wanting to ask why he had the claws, if he’d chosen to install them or if there’d been an accident, when Whirl shoved half the jars and the small stasis chest with the internals that had been filled near to bursting with cuts of fresh energon stained meat into his space.

 

One dripping claw pointed to Ratchet’s tent.

 

“Take to creators. Won’t worry about fuel while kid’s hurt.”

 

~~~~~~

 

Ratchet’s mate was sitting outside the tent, smoothing a sharpening pad over a short blade propped against one thigh. He looked up when Wing’s shadow crossed his lap, setting the sword aside and tilting his helm.

 

Wing held up the stasis chest he carried, with the jars stacked carefully on top, as an explanation, and the other mech gestured for him to sit.

 

“Ratch’s busy. Bad idea to go in right now.”

 

Wing set the box between them before settling back down in the sand once more and watching as the mech went back to work on sharpening the well-worn blade.

 

“Name’s Drift, by the way.” The other red and white bot’s optics continued tracking the smooth up and down motion of his servo over the blade as he spoke, thumbing the edge and continuing to hone the blade when he wasn’t satisfied with the bite.

 

“Wing. It’s nice to meet you, Drift.”

 

“You bonded with Rung now?”

 

Wing did a double take. It never failed to catch him by surprise, how forward these nomads could be.

 

“I’m not sure that’s really your concern, is it?” Wing coupled the question with a laugh and a smile, not wanting the other to mistake his want for privacy as being rude.

 

Drift flicked at the cable still dangling from his wrist joints with a wry smirk.

 

A new mate wasn’t allowed to walk freely amongst the tribe until they’d satisfied the conditions set forth by the elders. Until they’d interfaced. Rung’s explanation replayed in his processor as he rubbed at his wrists, hiding the severed cable from view.

 

The warrior just shrugged, snorting an exvent and turning back to his work.

 

“You’re right. None of my business. S’long as you don’t hurt anyone, yea?”

 

“Of course, I have no intentions of causing anyone any harm!”

 

“You try to leave, that’ll hurt Rung…”

 

“I…I don’t plan on leaving.” Even as he said it, Wing realized it was the truth. He would like to return to New Crystal City, to see his friends and reassure them that he was alive and well. But wherever Rung was, he could see himself happy to be there. The nomadic life would take getting used to, but he’d successfully managed to not purge his tanks earlier with Whirl, and that was a hurdle he wouldn’t have imagined being able to clear already.

 

Drift, unaware or uncaring of his realization, had fallen silent and swapped out the one blade for a second.

 

Wing crossed his legs, offlining his optics and focusing on the sounds of the camp at work, instead of the racing thoughts in his processor that all circled around to Rung. The noise became a background hum, just static in his audials as he cleared his mind.

 

He’d grown so adjusted to the fuzz of noise that the sudden yelling from inside made him jerk, sending one of the jars rolling away. It came to a stop, cracked and leaking fuel into the sand.

 

Drift was on his pedes, and inside the tent before Wing had a chance to ask, and so followed him in.

 

Ratchet was leaning over Stormchaser’s little frame, his front dripping blue from the ruptured line in the tiny chest cavity still spraying coolant between fingers moving so fast they were nearly a blur.

 

“Drift, get him out of here!” Wing thought for a moment Ratchet was referring to him, but Drift had already grabbed up Stormchaser’s carrier, twisting his arms until he had no choice but to allow Drift to steer him out the entrance, still screaming for the medic to _do something damnit!_

 

“Oi, knight! I could use a servo here.” Ratchet’s voice was deceptively calm as he instructed Wing to pinch off the coolant line above and below the break. The sparkling was still and silent beneath their servos, and Wing spared a line of processor to pray that the child was in stasis and not beyond Ratchet’s help. Already, the little frame was heating up, the air above him wavering in the sudden excess heat. His fingers were starting to burn around the crimped line, wrist plates kicking up warnings on his HUD of scorch marks where they rested against the open sides of his chest. His own fans kicked on to help dispel the heat, but Stormchaser’s didn’t, and the temperature continued to rise.

 

The split in the line sealed, Ratchet hooked an injector into the coolant tank hidden behind other internals. Wing pinned his gaze on the far wall of the tent while the tube attached to the injector was hooked up to a container of replacement coolant already nearly empty.

 

“Slagging pit!”

 

Wing didn’t say anything, but allowed curiosity and concern to flood his field. The medic didn’t respond right away, shaking the inverted coolant jug for every last drop clinging to the sides.

 

Finally, his shoulders slumped; he gave the jug one last shake and looked to Wing.

 

“That caravan didn’t have everything we needed. Coolant’s in short supply and I just ran out.”

 

“Was it enough at least for Stormchaser?”

 

Ratchet shook his head, frowning down at the tiny flyer. “No. Storm nearly emptied his entire tank with that rupture. It’s not even half full now.”

 

Wing was already digging through his subspace compartment to pull out his desert rations kit. Inside were multiple pouches of emergency coolant, blue liquid sloshing and shimmering inside the clear plastic bags. Ratchet didn’t say a word, just accepted the pouches one at a time until Stormchaser’s tank was full, with two pouches to spare.

 

Ratchet offered them back to Wing, but he shook his head.

 

“You keep them, just in case. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

 

He was shooed out of the tent with the medic’s gruff thanks. Wing left him running scans on the sparkling’s processor, muttering about the possibilities of processor and hard drive damage and cursing his lack of equipment.

 

He let his vents drag in a deep intake as he stepped out, the temperature difference between the inside of the tent and the desert outside a drastic change.

 

Drift was standing guard just beyond the entrance, watching the enraged carrier shout obscenities at him from where he stood, held back by a mech that Wing assumed was Storm’s sire from the similar build and coloring.

 

Not sure what else to do, he stooped to gather up the food Whirl had originally sent him over to deliver. He held it out in offering to the pair, bowing his head and smoothing out his field until nothing remained but _hope_. He feared condolence and apologies would be misunderstood at this point, and there was no reason to give Stormchaser’s creators any reason to grieve prematurely. The carrier glared at him, snarling and brushing him aside as he stalked back to the tent to stand pede tip to pede tip with Drift. Wing kept his optics on the sire, still holding out the box, but kept sensors on the carrier behind him incase Drift needed his help.

 

The sire accepted it with a nod, stepping past him to set it down near the tent and take hold of the carrier’s servo.

 

Drift caught his optic and waved him away. Wing had no doubt he could handle himself, but he still hesitated until the gesture was made again, more insistently.

~~~~~ 

The light had gone dim by the time he’d finally left Ratchet's tent and Drift behind him. He made his way carefully between the rows of tents, keeping one servo outstretched to trail along the weather worn hides. If he went the long way around, following the innermost ring of the structures, he hoped he could avoid possibly tripping in the mess of struts and energon soaked sand Whirl had undoubtedly left behind.

 

A pair of servos wrapped around him, one hooking around his cockpit, the other cupped over his mouth. He lashed out, trying to catch whoever it was with an elbow. The captor was insistent, weathering the blows with quiet grunts and continuing to pull at him, dragging him away from the lights of the camp.

 

He sank his dentae into the servo over his mouth when he saw Whirl cut across the center of camp, and shouted for the rotor even as he drove his pede down on the softer, thinner armor covering the top of the other mech’s pede. The crunch of metal plating didn’t deter the mech, though the limp he caused was pronounced.

 

He was pulled further and further from the camp, the unknown mech hissing at him to _be quiet already Wing!_

 

He froze, all fight gone, at that familiar voice.

 

“Axe?” He was spun around, coming face to extremely pained face with the mech he’d feared offlined since he’d woken in camp.

 

“Let’s go, Wing! You can make it up to me later by pounding out all the dents you just gave me!” Axe had hooked his arms under one of Wing’s shoulders, and _was that Dai Atlas??_ It was. The taller mech had all but melted out of the dark to grab his other arm, and together they lifted Wing off the ground.

 

The desert disappeared beneath their pedes as they rose higher, and jet thrusters whined to full life just as a blur of dark plating barreled into Dai Atlas’ side and tore him away from Wing and Axe to tumble helm over pedes through the air.

 

Left to support Wing’s weight alone, Axe’s grip slipped. Wing was left to plummet to the sand, flight panels stressing and struggling against the bite of the cable wound around them now that they were _needed._

 

Bracing for impact, optics shut tight and servos curled over his helm, he was surprised when instead of hitting the sand, he hit unforgiving armor and arms wrapped around him as he and the mystery mech dropped to the ground with a grunt. Onlining one optic let him see Drift rising to crouch over him. The warrior let him go and stood, keeping his optics locked on Axe, who landed several feet away. Servos freed of their burden, he drew both short blades from his hip sheathes and made to step over Wing.

 

“Drift, wait!”

 

Whirl was thrown to the sand near their pedes, one stabilizer wing bent. He rolled to a stop against Wing’s shins, and hopped back to his pedes with his claws up. He would have charged right back at the knight that loomed over him if Wing hadn’t grabbed one arm to stop him.

 

“Whirl, please.” He stepped between them, servos up. “Dai Atlas, Axe, what are you doing out here?”

 

“We’re here to rescue you! Nice thank you, by the way.” Axe pointed to the caved armor on his pede with a snort.

 

“Wing, it’s time to go home.” Dai Atlas said, waving a servo to silence Axe and glaring at the nomads standing at Wing’s shoulders.

 

“Sir?”

 

“You heard me, Wing. Let’s go.”

 

“I’m…not going, sir.” In any other situation, Wing would have relished the double take and look of absolute confusion on Dai Atlas’ face. In any other situation, he wouldn’t be defying the mech who had led them from a city crumbling under the weight of the Functionists and into a better life. As it was, he stood firm and kept his field under tight control so nobody could sense how conflicted he was. Drift set a servo on his shoulder, supporting him in action better than any words could. Whirl bumped his hip against his skirting panel, clicking his claws and watching the knights warily.

 

The leader of the knights drew himself up, flaring his plating and scowling at Wing like he was a wayward sparkling. Axe edged away from the other knight’s side, watching the confrontation wearily.

 

“You _will_ return to the citadel, Wing, and remember your oaths.”

 

“My oath was to protect _our people_! These nomads are our people too, Dai Atlas. They’re no different from us at spark.”

 

“They attacked your caravan and _kidnapped_ you. Wing, to protect our people means to protect them from anyone wanting to harm them. That includes these nomads.” Axe said, trying to reason with Wing and keep the situation from escalating.

 

“They raid us for good reason! I just watched a sparkling nearly _offline_ from a lack of basic supplies. If anyone needs our help, it’s them!”

 

“Wing, we’re leaving.” Dai Atlas’ tone clearly said he had no intention of leaving the errant knight behind.

 

When he took a step forward, Wing reacted on instinct and snatched one of Drift’s swords from his servo. Holding it between them, point just barely avoiding Dai Atlas’ chest plate, he shook his helm.

 

“I don’t want to fight you, Dai Atlas.”

 

“Then do what’s right, and follow orders.” The other mech snapped, reaching for his own weapon.

 

“You want me to do what’s right? _This_ is what’s right. _This_ is where I’m most needed.”

 

Dai Atlas opened his mouth, presumably to argue, and froze.

 

Axe had done much the same, optics gone vacant in the way most mechs’ did when a comm was coming through.

 

When the moment passed, Dai Atlas snarled.

 

Wing jerked back, never having heard his leader so incensed as to actually make a noise like that _._

 

“Axe, check Wing’s flight panels, see why he fell. We’re leaving. _Now.”_

 

“What’s going on?” He jerked away from Axe when his servo landed on a nacelle, field drawn tight and unreadable. Drift stepped between them, sharpened dentae bared, remaining sword raised with the tip pressed into Axe’s chest plate hard enough to dimple the metal.

 

Dai Atlas remained silent, and Wing turned to Axe. The mech had stepped back, servos raised and optics tracking the sword still between them.

 

“Axe?”

 

“The council just entered the citadel. They’re demanding we return immediately, or else.”

 

“Why would they do that?”

 

“Wing, this wasn’t a sanctioned trip. They’d never approve of us ‘wasting resources’ to look for you.” Axe stepped closer when Drift’s sword dropped, and froze with one pede in the air when it snapped back up again.

 

“They took Redline.” Dai Atlas said.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've spent all day on this, and I'm releasing it into the world to wreck havoc now, I can't look at it any longer.

For a long, tense moment, Wing couldn’t find a single word in his processor. Nobody made a sound. Before him, Dai Atlas and Axe, knights who swore the same vow as he, waiting for his reply. Behind him, the mechs that defended him when he shouted for help. He could all but sense the two tense nomads, wound tight like a coil and ready for a fight

 

“Wing. We’re going.” Dai Atlas’ tone was one he knew well, the one that warned he wasn’t in the mood to be argued with. Usually, he was on the receiving end of that tone for doing something like lead a group of mechs back to the city without citadel approval. Once, he’d brought three weakened, starving mechs out of the desert that he’d spotted on a solo flight to stretch his wings and practice his aerial stunts. The rules for letting in outsiders were very strict, and all in an effort to keep the Functionists and their supporters away from civilians who wanted a peaceful existence.

 

“I…I need a moment, Dai Atlas. I need to speak to someone.” Wing didn’t wait for an answer, turning on his heel and walking between Drift and Whirl, back towards the light of the tents.

 

“Wing! Get back here!” Dai Atlas said, but Wing just waved over his shoulder at the other, trying not to imagine how furious he was going to be.

 

“Best if you stay here, sir. Out of sight. They don’t much like outsiders in the camp I think.” He was ashamed of the little bit of guilty pleasure he took when he said that, and Whirl’s snicker and the clacking of claws did nothing to help.

 

“Wing, hurry. We don’t have much time. We don’t want a repeat of Nytro…” Axe called after him.

 

“Who’s Redline?” Drift asked, falling into step with him and leaving Whirl to watch the knights. He took back his sword, sheathing it and resting his servo on the hilt as he walked.

 

“Our medic. Head medic, actually. He’s trained half of the knights who work with him in the healing halls himself. He’s the most skilled at major rebuilds I’ve ever known, and he’s been a knight as long as I have, longer probably.” That they would take Redline was a new low for the zealots. Redline rarely ever set foot outside their walls save in emergencies where a bot was beyond help from other resources and couldn’t be safely moved. They had to have summoned him to get hold of him; there was no possible way they could have fought through the citadel’s guard to get to him specifically. The knights may preach peace, but they defended their own.

 

“They take a medic?” Drift scowled.

 

“You took a medic.” Wing couldn’t help but point out.

 

“Different. I took a mate, a bot I wanted to have life with. Happened to be medic. S’a lucky break for us. To take a healer for any other reason? No honor in that. No tribe would do it.”

 

Wing desperately wanted to argue with the warrior about that train of logic. It was okay to steal someone away and make them your mate, but not to take a medic if they weren’t going to be your mate? The nomadic logic made his processor ache.

 

“Wing?”

 

“Yes Drift?”

 

“Who’s Nytro?”

 

“A bot under our protection that the council got hold of. They’re not good people, Drift. I don’t know how much you know about the Functionist council but-“

 

“They’re monsters wearing protoforms.” Drift hissed, kicking at the sand. “We know them. We know them well…”

 

Wing let the conversation die, running as soon as he stepped into the ring of light afforded by the camp. He spun around Megatron when the chief stepped in his way to question him, and burst through the entrance to Rung’s tent at a dead sprint.

 

Rung had still been asleep, right up till he came in and shocked him awake. The nomad was on his pedes in a crouch the instant Wing barreled in, servos reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there.

 

“I’m so sorry Rung.” Wing dropped down into the furs, pressing a kiss to his cheek and pulling him in for a hug. The smaller mech’s frame was tensed, and Wing regretted that he was most definitely going to make things even worse.

 

“Wing?”

“I have to go-“

“What? No!” Rung pushed him away, moving quickly around the tent until he was between Wing and the exit.

 

“Rung, please, let me explain? I’m coming back. But my people need me.”

 

“I thought… I thought you were starting to see _us_ as your people.” Rung’s voice sounded so small, so spark broken, and Wing could kick himself for putting any doubt in his processor.

 

“Of course I do, Rung! That’s why I’m coming back! But the council, they’ve taken one of our knights to punish us, and I have to help get him back.” Wing tried to condense his explanation as he reattached the weapons he hadn’t worn on his frame in what felt like _far_ too long. Having his Great Sword back in its channel felt like a full body stretch, something he desperately needed but hadn’t realized had gotten so bad.

 

“Wing, please! If you leave…if you go to the Functionists…I may never see you again.”

 

Wing cupped Rung’s face in both servos, leaning down till they were optic to optic. The hurt and worry in his field was a physical presence in the tent, clawing at Wing’s armor and lashing at his own field.

 

He kissed Rung then, offlining his optics and pouring everything he could into that one point of contact. Rung gasped into the kiss, and Wing took it as invitation, glossa mapping out the other mech’s mouth and teasing his glossa until Rung responded. Wing let Rung press him down to the ground, climbing into his lap and taking control of the kiss as he rose up on his knees until Wing was forced to tilt his helm back or break contact.

 

When they parted, it was with a gasp for air to aid intakes already screaming, and a string of oral lubricants stretched between them.

 

“I promise, Rung. I’m coming back. You can’t get rid of me now.” He smiled, rubbing his thumb over Rung’s cheek and leaning up for another quick kiss. “But I have to do this. They came looking for me, to save me, and Redline’s going to be punished for it. You know what they’ll do, I can’t let that happen to anyone else.”

 

Rung stood without a word, turning his back to Wing and picking up his goggles off the crate where Wing had laid them.

 

“Rung?” He’d grabbed his staff, magnetizing it to his back.

 

“Yes, Wing?” Now he was going through the chest, stuffing the nesting materials in it after pulling out two jars and subspacing them.

 

“What are you doing?” He’d circled around behind Wing and started picking at the cable tangled in his flight panels.

 

He stepped back around once he was done, to give Wing a smile that didn’t quite make it to his optics before he pulled his goggles on.

 

“Isn’t it obvious? I can’t let my mate go alone.”

 

~~~~~

 

They exited the tent arguing. Wing didn’t want Rung to put himself in the council’s sights again while Rung was adamant that he wouldn’t be left behind. Rung was smearing dark red paint over his armor, the same war paint he’d still been sporting when they first met. That he could do that without a mirror, and hold an argument at the same time was something Wing would have to compliment him on when they weren’t fighting.

 

They were so caught up in the argument that they nearly ran face first into Megatron, Ratchet, and Drift. The three had been clustered together, speaking in hushed tones just beyond Rung’s tent, and in the way of their path back to the other knights.

 

“Chief.” Rung stepped back, putting his fist over his spark glass and nodding to the chief, then straightened and nodded to the medic and the warrior in turn. Wing followed his lead, but couldn’t help but look over the chief’s shoulder to the dark behind the tents, where he knew people were waiting for him. It felt like a clock was winding down over his helm the longer he spent trying to explain himself, first to Rung, now to Megatron. Because the larger mech was clearly not going to let him go without an explanation.

 

“He walks armed now?” Megatron motioned to the hilt of the Great Sword rising over the back of his helm. “We said nothing when you freed him. He helped save a sparkling, we could allow him leniency in light of that. But this is a bit much, don’t you think?”

 

Rung ducked his helm, apologizing. “He wouldn't harm any of our people, sir, I promise. He's said he sees us as his people now! And he only walks armed because we need to leave the camp. Just temporarily, it’s an emergency.”

 

“Does this have something to do with those city-mechs trying to hide behind the northern tents?” The grey mech pinned them both with a glare only slightly softened by the smirk that curled his lip up over one pointed denta.

 

Wing wished he were a mech who routinely cursed. As it was, all he could do was stare at the chief with his optics open as wide as they’d go and his mouth agape. Rung snickered beside him, covering his smile with his servo.

 

“They stumble around like wounded animals in the dark, did they honestly expect to surprise anyone but a city mech?” Megatron laughed and Wing flushed a bit at the city mech comment, choosing not to mention that Axe had sure surprised the spark out of him. No need to hand over ammo just like that.

 

The chief turned to watch Whirl push the two mechs into the light. Despite the fact that he barely came up to Dai Atlas’ collar fairing, he showed no hesitance in pushing the larger mech around. A well-placed push had Axe stumbling, and Dai Atlas caught his arm to pull him upright.

 

“Please, Chief Megatron, they mean the tribe no harm!” Wing protested, shrugging off Rung’s servo on his elbow and stepping forward to plead the knights’ case.

 

“Drift has already explained to me what happened. We’ve never known a city mech to go to such lengths to regain one of their own.” Megatron said, crossing his arms and studying the two knights. His optics lingered on the Great Swords they carried, the same as Wing’s. “Are knights more important than medics? Nobody came after Ratchet after all.”

 

Ratchet snorted. “I can think of more than a few who would have been willing to pay for you to take me away.” Drift wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pressed a kiss to the faded medic symbol. Ratchet grumbled but didn’t shake his mate loose.

 

“We’re not more important than anyone else in the city, sir. Just loyal to one another.” Wing explained, insinuating himself between the nomads and his fellow knights.

 

The chief nodded and smiled. Well, smirking would probably be a more accurate description. Wing wasn’t sure the bot had an expression other than smirk, serious, and angry. But he approved of the loyalty, it seemed, and Wing felt a bit of relief at that realization. Maybe things wouldn’t end as badly as he feared.

 

“You are wanting to leave the tribe?” Rung had already asked permission, and Megatron already knew the answer, but he waited for Wing’s response none the less.

 

“The Functionists have taken our chief medic, and we fear they will punish him for the knights coming to look for me. He is a good friend to me, and I want to help rescue him, if he’s still alive.”

 

“Rung?”

 

“I’m not letting my mate go alone.” Rung’s chin jutted out, his servos curled into fists at his sides. Wing wanted to smooth the tension out of his frame, stroke the antennae flattened back against his helm until they stood up properly again. He settled for resting a servo on the small of his back, instead, and traced a plating seam under his thumb.

 

“Who is your chief, then?”

 

“Dai Atlas is our leader, sir.” Wing gestured to the mech in question, inclining his head and holding his vents as the much larger mech stepped forward, wearing his authority around him like a cloak. Helm raised, optics narrowed, Dai Atlas was an imposing figure any given time of the cycle. Now he projected his leadership in a way that made him seem larger still.

 

Megatron seemed unfazed by the display, stepping up till they were nearly optic to optic. The two stared at one another for a long, nerve wracking minute.

 

“I’ve seen what your kind do to mechs. I want my bots back, in one piece, unharmed. Or else, you’ll see our kind can do so much worse than raid a few caravans.” Megatron finally said. He narrowed his optics, the harsh glare only made more severe with his goggles flipped up to make a strong line across his brow. Wing expected Dai Atlas to argue and insist that Wing wasn’t Megatron’s bot. He was relieved when he only nodded. Nobody could argue that the mech didn’t know how to pick his battles.

 

“Just like that? You’ll let them leave?” Wing felt the sudden, irrational urge to smack Axe upside the helm.

 

Megatron tilted his head to the side; studying the black and gold mech. Axe crossed his arms and widened his stance under the scrutiny. He was thankful Axe wasn’t a mech prone to picking up arms when he felt threatened. Not that he needed one; his hand to hand combat skills were second to none. But the nomads couldn’t know that, and so didn’t see the threat in his stance, only the agitation.

 

“It’s their choice,” Megatron finally responded with a shrug, “Freedom is the right of all. But they won’t be going alone. Whirl, you’ll go with them.” Whirl nodded, “Ratchet wants us to stay another three solar cycles, and the lands will support us for that long; I expect them back by then.”

 

Dai Atlas and Axe both turned to leave, heading back the way they came into the darkness. Megatron caught the taller knight by one shoulder, spinning him around and pulling him close again.

 

“Bring them back. All three of them. Safe and whole. Or we will burn your city to the ground to get them back. Understood?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lot of tags added to this chapter, please read them!  
> Mentions of rape, torture, and vomit in this chapter.  
> I'm sorry in advance for what I've done to Rung.

Rung was silent as they streaked across the desert. His fingers dug into the seat for a lack of anywhere else to place them in Wing’s cockpit. Outside the amber glass Rung could see Whirl keeping close to them, taking his job of watching out for the smaller tribesmechs seriously.

 

<What’s the plan, Dai?> Axe asked over the open comm they’d established. The darker jet was on Wing’s other side, Dai leading the way in front of them.

 

<We’re getting Redline back.> The taciturn knight said, letting the line crackle with empty static.

 

<…how?> Despite the lack of a face to put the expression to, nobody could doubt the skepticism that would have been twisting Axe’s face had he been in root mode.

 

The plan, as it turned out, was to wing it. Dai Atlas was determined to negotiate for Redline’s release. The doubt they all felt was palpable, even distanced as they were for safe flying conditions.

 

Rung offlined his optics, leaning back in the seat that seemed to adjust around him to support his frame comfortably. His processor was spinning, and his tanks roiled at the uncomfortable feeling of rapid movement. He’d never been this high off the ground before, not that he could recall at least. Or moved this fast. The tribe always travelled on foot, altmodes being varied as they were that travel in a group was impossible in anything but root mode. On top of that, it conserved energon, which during times of plenty was no concern, but better to be prepared for starvation times than to be blindsided by them. All in all, the jarring difference in travel modes was making him nauseous, and he focused on clinging to the brief moments of calm in his tank in an effort to not purge all over Wing’s cockpit.

 

Wouldn’t that just be a lovely way to cement their relationship.

 

“Rung?” Wing’s voice crackled to life in the speakers on the console. Rung cracked one optic shutter open and tried to smooth out the pained expression he just knew was twisting his face.

 

Opening his mouth was risky as Wing hit a thermal pocket and the ride became decidedly less smooth for a moment, so he settled for humming acknowledgement to the jet.

 

“You’ve been awfully quiet…” The worry in his voice stung. The last thing he wanted to do was cause his mate any concern, especially with the troubles waiting for them at the citadel. He smoothed one servo over the edge of the control console, fingers tracing over buttons and switches carefully.

 

“I’m – I’m fine, Wing.” He said, only just closing his mouth and swallowing in time to fight back the nausea working its way up his throat.

“You can stay at the citadel, Rung. Nobody would judge you for not wanting to go into the city.” His voice was soft over the speakers, and the harness tightened fractionally around his frame in a facsimile of a hug.

 

The motion, meant to comfort, wound up doing exactly the opposite, and suddenly his tank was a complete riot. He slapped one servo over his mouth, tugging at the harness with the other.

 

“Rung?” Worry had gone to panic, and he could swear his tank was rising as they lost altitude. The harness had loosened, much to his relief, and Wing had seemed to realize, whether he figured out what was happening or not, that Rung needed to get his pedes back on the ground. As soon as the cockpit glass had risen he was throwing himself over the side, landing none too gently on one of Wing’s flight panels and tipping over the edge to fall on his servos and knees to the sand below.

 

The battle lost, his tank purged. Foul tasting half processed energon and his partially digested dinner hit the sand, splashing over his servos and gathering in an oily puddle in a little divot in the ground.

  
Surprisingly, it was Whirl who rubbed one careful claw over his back, helping to ease the spasms in his tank. Rung could only guess that he’d followed Wing down, as the other two knights were circling back overhead. Wing had unfolded into root mode, but didn’t interrupt Whirl, concern and guilt eating at his field.

 

Rung sat back on his heels, wiping at his face with one sand covered servo and pulling out a cloth to wipe at the mess he’d made of his plating. Whirl was already kicking sand over the mess with one pede, never taking that single optic off him as he cleaned up.

 

“I’m sorry,” He said finally, folding up the cloth and storing it away to clean later. His tank was already settling down, though his processor still spun and his helm ached like it’d been caught under a tankformer’s tread. “It seems I don’t take too well to flying. Wing?” He held out one servo after checking to make sure there was no evidence of his purging left on the plating.

 

The jet was slow to respond, and Rung had started to worry that he’d insulted the mech’s flying skills. Instead of taking his servo and pulling him to his pedes as he’d expected, Wing dropped to his knees next to him, careful to not jostle him too badly as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

 

“You’re sorry?” He laughed, pressing their foreheads together, “Rung, I didn’t even _think_ that you were feeling ill! I shouldn’t have assumed you’d been flying before!” His voice was loud in Rung’s audials, but he said nothing, wrapping his arms around the knight’s neck and smiling.

 

“First time. Here’s hoping I desensitize… I’d thought that one day maybe we could go flying together, though not in such a dire set of circumstances, nor such an unattractive outcome!”

 

“I’d thought you were upset.” Wing confessed, “As awful as it is to say, I’m relieved you were sick, instead.”

 

Rung chewed on his bottom lip, looking sidelong at Whirl. The copter pointedly turned his back to them and started humming. Loudly.

 

He shifted, putting one servo on the glass of his cockpit and pushing away. “We’ll talk later.” He promised, standing and turning to smile at Axe and Dai Atlas as they landed.

 

~~~~~

 

Despite the knights protests, Wing insisted on slowing down to a more manageable speed.

 

Dai Atlas had been beside himself, the stoic façade cracking to reveal the worry and anger beneath for a brief moment. It had taken them two whole solar cycles to find the camp, and they couldn’t risk loosing time returning.

 

Wing had very calmly pointed out that they’d undoubtedly been travelling far slower, with multiple stops to touch down and track the movements of the tribe. Throttling back their speed a fraction to keep the only ground frame in their group from spending the entire trip purging his tanks wasn’t asking for too much.

 

“They expect us to be back. They don’t expect us to come back with company. If there is a fight,” Wing had said, and continued to speak over Dai Atlas’ protests that they were going to negotiate, to try and _avoid_ a fight, “ _If_ there’s a fight, which there _could very well be_. They may dislike us bringing back nomads. They may dislike you bringing _me_ back since I was written off as lost. If there’s a fight, I don’t want Rung at a disadvantage by being ill.”

 

Dai Atlas had grown sullen and silent at the calmly delivered rationale. Rung wondered for a moment if anyone had ever gone against the knight as Wing was, he didn’t seem to take too kindly to the jet arguing against him.

 

“Wing,” Rung touched the jet’s arm, straightening up and trying to hide the still queasy feeling in his tank from face and field, “I’ll survive. Please don’t slow down on my behalf.”

 

“Rung-“

 

“I’ll ride with Whirl instead, if I have to.” Whirl had cackled at the threat, clicking his claws and leering at them.

 

“Been trying to take Eyebrows flying long time! Give a fun ride, yea?” Rung had rolled his optics, reaching out and thwacking the copter on one spindly leg.

 

They came to a compromise, thanks to Axe. The mech was quickly making himself known to the tribesmechs as the level headed one of the group. So while they were still travelling far faster than Rung was used to (or liked), and his processor still ached if he tried to look out the glass, his tank was no longer cramping.

 

“It’s later,” Wing said, the dim lighting of the console brightening momentarily as he spoke, “Do you want to talk about it now?”

 

Rung frowned at the speaker, optics still shuttered and eyebrows pinched down with the force of his concentration on anything but the pounding behind his temples. The harness twitched around his shoulders, a silent nudging to speak, he supposed.

 

“It’s been a long cycle, Wing.” He sighed, pinching his olfactory ridge and leaning forward to brace his arms against his thighs and let his helm hang between his shoulders. “I’m worried about Stormchaser. I’m worried about you.”

 

“Why me?”

 

He snorted, raising one servo to stroke the harness that had stretched with him when he moved instead of pinning him in place as its function would dictate.

 

“Why not you? You’re my mate. Or you will be. It’s … difficult, Wing. I’m a tribesmechs. I don’t remember enough of my time in the city to make me anything else. Everything in me is screaming to drag you back to the tribe, and to protect you at all costs. But you want to rescue your medic, and I understand, so the best I can do is follow you, and hope I’m enough to bring you home again.”

 

“I’m not running away from the tribe, Rung!” Wing argued, harness straps stretching taut at the perceived insinuation.

 

“I never said you were. But I know what the council’s capable of. I’ve been through what they can do. Your medic…he may not be the mech you knew when you find him…” His fingers tightened around the strap now, trying to convey his caution and worry through touch as well as voice and field. Wing stayed silent.

 

“And if they get hold of you, if they try to hurt you…Wing, I-“ The straps pulled him back flush against the seat now, the cushioning forming to his frame and cradling him in its hold.

 

“Rung, I plan on coming home with you. We’ll watch each others backs, and we’ll get through this.”

 

It was Rung’s turn to stay quiet, holding onto the point of the harness over his spark glass where all the straps intersected.

 

“And from what I’ve seen of Ratchet, he won’t let Stormchaser offline without a fight.”

 

“Our supplies aren’t great, even with that raid, Wing. He may not have a choice.” Rung sighed, turning his helm to press his cheek to the seat.

 

“We’ll bring back supplies from the citadel. I’d planned on asking Dai Atlas for aide before we left, regardless.”

 

How could Wing understand? Rung couldn’t even find the words to voice his concerns, let alone ones that would make sense to the city-mech. How could he make the jet see that supplies were only part of the problem? That sparklings like Stormchaser were small, fragile, prone to more complications than their adult counterparts. That Ratchet may at this very moment be delivering the bad news to a pair of grieving caregivers, destroying what hope they had left. That, secretly, Rung was glad for what had been done to him by the council, because he’d never _ever_ have to worry over a sparkling from his own frame the way he saw others do all to often.

 

Wing picked up on the disgust in his field, and wrongly assumed it must have been aimed at him.

 

“Is it really so bad, to ask for help instead of taking what you want from others?” His tone had gone testy, his field drawn in tight. Nestled in his cockpit as he was, it was an odd sensation, as if he was trapped in a bubble of dead air, surrounded by the field but not touched by it.

 

“Wing, no, that’s not –“

 

“Then what, Rung? I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t let me!”

 

“I’m not upset with you!” He reached out to the console, and pulled his servo back at the last minute as the backlit controls flared brightly for a split second.

 

“Are you sure? Because your field doesn’t seem to think so…” What started off snappy had ended on a hurt, uncertain note, and it tore at Rung’s spark.

 

“Wing…I’m not upset with you,” He risked touching the control panel again, despite the jet’s ire. “I’m upset with myself.”

 

Wing tugged at him again with the harness, and he sighed. It wasn’t an easy conversation to have, explaining to the knight how at some point during more than a _vorn_ of torture and manipulation, they had focused their attentions on his interface equipment.

 

They’d taken a dark pleasure in forcing overloads from him, one after the other consecutively. All he remembered from that time with the thick syrupy sensation of their fields all but drowning him, and the cold, compassionless machines that moved relentlessly in his aching valve and over his swollen, sensitive spike, long after he’d given up on begging for them to stop and started begging for the next overload, for the bliss of momentary darkness and nothingness as a reprieve from the torment.

 

Every time he awoke, it was to the pain of their datapads disrupting the charge of his spike, making each new overload just a little bit more off from the norm than the last. The final straw had been when they cut into his armor. They hadn’t even shut off the machine that moved the oversized false spike in his valve as they pried back his plating and removed his gestation chamber while he watched and screamed. All he could do was scream, from the pain, the terror, the horror, it all bled into one long, unending wail.

 

When he’d woken up again, he’d been in the middle of nowhere, with sand building up along his side in a little dune, filling the hole in his abdomen where his tank had been. Whirl had found him, and the rest had been, as they say, history.

 

“They raped you.” Wing said, voice flat but field full of barely contained rage and horror at the story Rung was weaving.

 

“They never touched me, Wing,” Rung said, running hand over the edge of the seat in a gesture meant to soothe, “They used machines to stimulate my systems, while they altered the measure of my charge. To ‘prevent my affliction of form’, my ‘lack of purpose’ from spreading to another generation. We still had many sparklings born the old way back then. They made sure that I’d never be able to have one of my own. I don’t know if they’d planned on letting me go at some point, or if it was just meant to be more psychological torture. Either way, they made sure I couldn’t pass my ‘problem’ on to someone else whether I was sire or carrier.” His own field was drawn tight to his frame as he wrestled with the burning shame and fury that tried to flood it. He could be calm for his mate. That didn’t make what had been done to him right.

 

“Rung, this is the worst possible place to have this conversation…” Busy with other emotions, he couldn’t quite catch the hurt before it pushed at the edges of his EMF. “I want to be on solid ground, I want to be able to put my arms around you and shield you from all the awful things this world has done to you, and comfort you. But since I can’t, I want you to listen to me very carefully. Just because they didn’t touch you themselves, doesn’t mean they aren’t absolutely 100% in the wrong. They raped you, Rung, and I’ll say it if you can’t.”

 

“I wish we were home,” Rung admitted, laughing a bit and pushing his goggles up to scrub at his optics with the back of one servo. “All I want is for us to be safe and happy, and this is about as far from that as I can imagine.”

 

Wing just tightened his hold in silence.

 

~~~~~

 

Rung had fallen into recharge somewhere over the area where they’d ambushed the caravan he’d met Wing at, and when he woke again, the sun had risen high in the sky. Their speed had slowed considerably, and his processor felt much less like a flattened piece of scrap and more like his own brain module again.

 

“Morning.” Rung smiled at the teasing tone in Wing’s voice as he stretched, pointing his pedes in the little space under the console and tracing his fingers over the lines of reinforcement in the glass overhelm.

 

“Is it morning?” He laughed, pointedly eying the sun, knowing that Wing was keeping a close optic on him in light of their conversation last night. How grateful he was that the jet wasn’t treating him like spun glass at least!

“Not for a while now, but I didn’t want to wake you.” Wing admitted, sounding a little apologetic and a little distracted as they banked to the left, loosing altitude. “You woke up at the perfect time though. Look, there’s the citadel.”

 

Rung risked his tank, peering over his shoulder. He didn’t even try to hide his gasp of astonishment at the sight of the building they were circling. Spires of twisting crystal and plasteel shot up out of the sand, connected here and there by platforms at varying heights. Mechs walked or flew between the spires, or between the buildings scattered at the edges of the wall surrounding the citadel, going about their business as if nothing was wrong.

 

When they were all back on solid footing, and Rung had convinced his legs to stop wobbling like a knock-kneed sparkling, Dai Atlas led them to the gate leading into the city. The doors towered far overhelm, prompting Rung to tilt his head back to take it in properly. A shouted greeting drew him out of his admiration of the graceful architecture, covered in decorative scroll work that served no discernable purpose that would have been sneered at in the tribe.

 

A mech strode towards them, as fast as was possible without running and loosing that noble bearing that the knights seemed to have been programmed with.

 

“Cloudskimmer,” Wing leaned down to whisper in his audial. “He’s a gate guard, and I’m sure he’s about to have a spark attack with all that’s been going on. Not a fan of action, that one.” Rung smiled at the explanation, studying Cloudskimmer as he drew up in front of Dai Atlas, standing at attention and clasping servos when the larger mech offered his. They shifted their hands, intertwining fingers and staying silent. Dai Atlas and Cloudskimmer both offered their free servos to Axe, who’d stayed standing behind Dai’s right shoulder the entire time.

 

Whirl kicked at the sand, tilting his helm and studying the exchange with a curiosity filled field.

 

“It’s chirolinguistics.” Wing offered, following Whirl’s line of sight to the knights’ display in front of them. Whirl turned to look at Wing then, with the same confusion, and Wing smiled, “They’re speaking hand. Signs and symbols that mean words. I can teach you, later. If you’d like.” The offer was made to Whirl, but he squeezed Rung’s hand, silently including him.

 

“Meh. No hands.” Whirl grumbled, snapping a pincer in front of Wing’s nose.

 

Wing winced, and Rung squeezed his hand sympathetically.

 

“Thanks anyway.” Whirl finally said to break the silence.

 

~~~~~

 

Dai Atlas had gone into the room that the councilmechs had been sequestered in a quite a while ago, taking Axe with him and leaving the rest to wait.

 

When the door finally opened, Dai Atlas was the first one to exit, faceplate twisted in the closest thing to rage he’d seen on a knight yet. The councilmechs followed behind, and Rung forgot for a moment how to vent. Their faces didn’t matter, nor did their frames. He remembered each and every one of the mechs who’d hurt him all those vorns ago, and he remembered these mechs faces.

 

They’d stopped in the doorway, helms tilting in a synchronized move that sent a shiver of irrational fear down his spinal strut. He had weapons, he had Whirl at his back, and most importantly, he had Wing at his side. But still the looks curdled what little remained in his tank. He drew his field in tight to his frame, and met their stares with his helm held high.

 

One raise a servo, and before Rung could tense, Wing had stepped in front of him, blocking him from their view, and them from his. One servo reached back to touch his side, but Wing didn’t stand down.

 

The councilmechs glided around Wing on either side, and Whirl snarled. After getting a good long look at Rung, they turned to Dai Atlas as one, and Rung hated the relief flooding through his lines at being out from under their scrutiny.

 

“You had your chance, Knight Dai Atlas. Our price has raised. For graciously returning your medic to you, despite the slanderous things he has said about the council, you will grant us complete access to and authority over New Crystal City. The city will be reabsorbed into the sovereignty of the council, and it’s citizens reintegrated with society.”

 

“You already asked that, and I gave you my answer.” Dai Atlas said, tone flat and firm. His shoulders pulled back as he drew himself up to his full height, towering over the weak framed council members.

 

“ _In addition_ ,” One said, raising a servo, “You hand over the desert rat to us immediately.” The servo pointed directly at Rung, and his fuel tank dropped to his pedes again.

 

Wing’s flight panels flared out, nearly clipping both councilmechs in the face for how close they’d drawn while they made their demands. Whirl’s chest mounted guns whined in warning as he primed them for battle, and Rung. Well, Rung wished he could say that he drew his staff, took a defensive stance, and told them to leave.

 

He really wished he could say that.

 

Instead, he leaned against Wing, optics shuttered while he tried to vent through the panic bubbling up in his chest. His spark spun in its case like a mad thing, and the room was surely spinning under his pedes.

 

Wing’s voice was far away and distorted as if he was speaking through a body of solvent as he demanded the mechs remove themselves from the citadel _immediately_. Whirl was crouched over him, and when did he move to the floor? However he got there, he was kneeling on the carved stone of the citadel floor, palms pressed flat near his knees, hunched over and venting sharp short intakes that did nothing to cool his systems as the panic drove his core temperature higher and higher.

 

And like a bubble, the bell of distorted silence around him burst, and suddenly the room was filled with noise again.

 

“Dai Atlas, you can’t be considering-!”

 

“Of course not, Wing. Compose yourself and remain quiet.” Dai Atlas interrupted his mate, making a sharp, short gesture with one servo before rounding on the council mechs.

 

“We will have our medic back. But you will not gain access to this safe haven, nor will we willingly barter a life as a form of payment. It is not our way, and our brother that you hold captive would not thank us for breaking our oath of protection for him. New Crystal City will never be part of the Functionist sovereignty so long as I continue to function. This city is a haven for those who wish for another way of life, and we will no more trade that away than we would this nomad’s freedom. You will remove yourself immediately to the accommodations we’ve made for you in the housing outside the citadel, and we will resume negotiations tomorrow.”

 

The mechs were guided away by knights who had appeared as if from nowhere at Dai Atlas’ summons, and Wing knelt next to Rung as soon as they’d left, gathering him up in his arms and pressing their foreheads together.

 

“I’m right here, love. You’re safe, you’re perfectly safe. Vent with me, focus on my venting. In and out Rung, in and out. That’s it.” Rung matched his venting to Wings, and gave a shaky smile at the encouragement. Wing pressed a servo to the glass in his chest plate, palm pressed flat over the wildly fluctuating light as if to calm it by touch alone. Lips touched his helm crest, a soft, reassuring touch.

 

When he’d gotten his emotions under control and his spark no longer felt like it was going to spin right out of his chest, he leaned up to press a kiss to one of the vents along side Wing’s face.

 

“Thank you, Wing. Whirl.” He twisted to touch one of the copter’s gun barrels, firm and grounding despite the heat that had built in the metal. Whirl was wild optiked, still staring at the door the mechs had left through, and his battle protocols were fully online. Even as the paint on his palm blistered and peeled, he continued to hold on to the mech. There was no way to talk the rotor out of a battle rage, they’d learned that long ago, but he wouldn’t leave his friend to fight his way out alone.

 

“What now? They’re surely gong to send word back to where ever they’ve got your medic. It won’t end well for him…” Guilt warred with the relief of their departure now. His safety had been assured at the damage of another. Someone else was going to go through their tender mercies now, and even though he knew that rationally, it wasn’t his fault, Redline’s energon was still on his servos.

 

“The guards have been instructed to set up comm blockers around their housing. They won’t be notifying anyone unless they attempt to leave. Now we go find our medic, and we bring him home.” Dai Atlas said, striding for the exit without waiting for a response.


	15. Chapter 15

Once the councilmechs had left, they’d stood in the high ceilinged chamber in an echoing silence for a very long time. It had been Rung to break the silence.

 

“Now what?”

 

After a short argument between Dai Atlas and Wing concerning the tribesmechs safety, which had been succinctly broken up when Whirl slammed Wing to the ground and pointed out the desert hadn’t managed to kill either of them just yet, Axe had suggested they head into Iacon.

 

“Even if Redline’s not there,” He pointed out as they left the citadel, “That’s where the council meets. Good a place as any to start looking. And having a couple nomads along for the trip means we can cut straight through instead of sticking to the roads and airways cleared by the cities, yea?”

 

Nobody needed to mention the clock running down on Redline’s life, or how, if they didn’t find him in Iacon, they’d probably never find him. At least, not in the same shape he’d been taken.

 

Iacon was a two days journey from New Crystal City by air even with the shortcut Whirl and Rung granted them, and even Dai Atlas had been forced to admit they needed to land and rest when they’d flown halfway through the night cycle and everyone was starting to lag except the rotor. Rung wondered how much was Whirl’s natural ability to draw energy from conflict and tension to thrive, and how much was him pushing himself past his limits to show how much better nomads were at survival and endurance than city mechs.

 

Setting up camp was simple, and seemed so dull and lifeless without the chatter of the tribe as Rung pulled skins from his subspace and piled them up in a nest. He’d much rather prefer their tent to sleeping exposed like this, but his subspace generator was too small to make a space large enough to store his tent.

 

“C’mon eyebrows. Time for food.” He stood to follow Whirl, and was stopped by a servo on his shoulder.

 

Axe loomed over him, quirking an optic ridge.

 

“Where you lads headed? We’ve got plenty of energon right here. Wouldn’t be right to not feed you, seeing as you’re helping us get Redline back, after all.” Dai Atlas’ scowl told Rung exactly how he felt about feeding the nomads, and he shook his helm.

 

“Hunting. Your energon is diluted, weaker than fresh. You’re accustomed to that, and your systems run accordingly, but we aren’t. We’ll be back shortly.” Wing stood to follow, and Rung smiled, leaning up and kissing his cheek. “You stay here, with your friends. We’ll be back.”

 

~~~~~

 

The disgust Dai Atlas felt was plain in his field when they came back over an hour later, a brace of turbo foxes between them to be skinned and cleaned. Wing wordlessly sat down next to Rung and held out a servo for one of the animals, and Axe hovered over their shoulders, watching in fascination as they worked. Every so often, Rung would lay a servo over Wing’s, stopping him before he made an error that would ruin the animal, but otherwise it was quiet and comfortable sitting together as they were, all working on a simple task.

 

Dai Atlas reached his boiling point when Wing accepted a bite from Rung’s fingers, freshly cut and dripping energon. He rose to his pedes, silent in his anger, and stared at them. Wing licked up the energon on his fingers and passed the fox he was working on to Rung before rising and facing the other knight.

 

Axe leapt between them, a servo on Dai Atlas’ chest, and quickly broke the tension.

 

“So, here’s the plan. I’ve got a contact, one inside the city. He contacted me a few days before the last mission, asking for asylum for him and his conjunx.”

 

“And you haven’t done anything?” Dai’s anger hadn’t been calmed, but redirected, disbelief in his tone and field that Axe wouldn’t immediately help a mech who’d asked.

 

“If you’d let me finish, Dai…you’d know that he’s an institute mech.”

 

The silence that fell over the little camp was tense and angry now. It seemed even Whirl knew what it meant to be an Institute mech, judging by the angry clench of his claws, over stressing the hinges as the bladed instruments crossed paths and kept bending.

 

“Yea. Kinda what I thought. So, I did some research, but not enough to make a call before we left. And then I got hurt,” He spared a look over his shoulder at Rung, “and you’ll forgive me for having gotten distracted, yea?”

 

Wing had placed a servo on his shoulder at Axe’s words, and Rung couldn’t quite mask the spike of guilt in his field.

 

Dai Atlas nodded, chewing on his lip and looking anywhere but at Axe. It seemed the knight had some skill at chastising the larger mech.

 

“Turns out he was on the police force, but he showed promise, and the Institute dragged him in for training. Turns out, he doesn’t like what he’s doing like he’d thought he would, and his conjunx is terrified for him. We may be able to trade asylum for information. Get in, get Redline, and bring them with us when we get out. His story seemed on the level, and it’s a risk I think we need to take.”

 

They spoke for a while on strategy and tactics, but it was Wing who pointed out that until they met with Axe’s contact, they couldn’t really plan anything. Thinking the conversation had drawn to a close, Rung headed towards the pile of furs, intent on getting a little rest before taking a shift on watch.

 

“Wing, they seemed to know this bot. Why?” He froze at Axe’s question, and felt that panic bubble up again. This time, he was able to get it under control before it leaked into his field, and he waited to see what Wing would say.

 

“Drop it Axe. Suffice to say, he knows what Redline’s going through, and leave it at that?”

 

“Wing, you know you can’t keep secrets here. Secrets could tear this place apart, a knight never withholds information from his brothers and sisters.” Dai Atlas said, tone disapproving. Oh how Rung wanted to say something, to put this knight in his place. How dare he try and bully Wing into giving up someone else’s past, especially when they were right there!

 

“It’s not my secret to tell, and it’s not relevant, Dai Atlas.” He walked back to Wing, and slid one servo into his, squeezing it in silent thanks.

 

“It could hurt us, and it could hurt him. You never know what’s relevant till it decides to let you know.” Axe, ever the voice of reason, cautioned.

 

“Rung can take care of himself. So can we.”

 

“Oh, I know this bot can take care of himself. First hand.” Axe winked at Rung, and there went the guilt teeking into his field again.

 

“What? Rung?” Wing turned to look at him, squeezing his servo and tilting his helm.

 

“I … I didn’t want to tell you, Wing, I’m so sorry…I injured him in that raid, and I wasn’t sure if he’d make it….I’m glad you did, by the way, very glad.”

 

“Yea, well, no permanent harm, no foul, right lad? You’re wicked fast, you know that? Didn’t even see you coming till it was too late! Thanks making that other guy patch me up before you all beat pede outta there, by the way. Kid knew his way around a med kit.”

 

Rung chuckled, adjusting his goggles and surreptitiously wiping away a stray bead of coolant. “I would hope he did, he _is_ our medic’s mate.”

 

~~~~~

 

It was late in the night cycle when Wing curled up in the pile of furs and pressed a sleepy kiss to the side of his face. He knew he should get up, he and Whirl had offered to take the deep cycle watch, knowing the knights vision would be poorly adapted to the complete lack of light at the darkest point of the night. But Whirl caught his eye and shrugged, tossing little bits of useless, broken turbofox strut into the small fire.

 

He could afford a few minutes of comfort here in the dark, safe in their little nest. Curling into Wing’s embrace, he pressed a kiss of his own to the knight’s throat, right over the scar that weaved up and down over multiple cables, his fuel lines, and his intake. Wing hummed, servos stroking down his spinal strut.

 

“Wing?” He whispered into the hollow space between chest plate and throat. Wing kissed his crest in acknowledgement, tracing nonsense patterns over his back plates. “Wing, promise me you’ll be careful in there? No matter what happens to _us_ after, I don’t want you hurt. Or worse.”

 

Wing mumbled something, tightening his grip around Rung’s shoulders and pressing his face down against his helm. Rung shifted so he wasn’t talking directly into the top of his head, and Wing sighed. “Only if you promise the same.”

 

“It’s a deal.” He planted a quick kiss on Wing’s slack mouth before extricating himself from the tangle of limbs and furs and heading for the fire.

 

“Happy with shiny?” Whirl asked before he’d even sat down, tossing another strut in the fire and listening to the pop and crackle as it was seared of any leftovers.

 

“Wing, Whirl. His name’s Wing.” It was reflex at this point, and he leaned back on his servos, staring up at the stars overhead.

 

“Happy with shiny Wing?”

 

He rolled his optics, and nodded. “Yes, Whirl. Quite happy, I think.”

 

“Good.” Whirl bumped his shoulder with one wrist mounted rotor and stood, “Gonna check the traps.” They’d set some snares when they’d been out hunting, to catch breakfast.

 

“Be careful, Whirl.” The rotor in question just waved a claw in response.

 

He was only granted a few minutes to enjoy the peace and quiet before someone was settling next to him in the sand.

 

“Dai Atlas.” He didn’t need to face the mech to know who owned the massive presence next to him.

 

“Rung, yes?” Rung nodded, knowing full well the mech would know his name by now, and unsure if he was attempting to prove his superiority or just being polite.

The silence stretched between them, awkward now, for long, tense minutes. Finally, the knight reset his vocalizer with a spit of static. “Wing said you knew what was happening to Redline…tell me, is there…any hope? Of getting our medic back?”

 

Rung weighed his words carefully. Despite the mech’s lack of respect for him and his kind, it was clear the other was very worried for this medic. It was good to know he wasn’t so cold towards everyone.

 

“I know from very personal experience, Dai Atlas, that your medic’s stay with them will not be a … pleasant one. And I have to warn you… if you get your medic back, he won’t be the same.” The larger mech slumped, a puppet whose strings had been cut. Rung very purposefully looking into the fire and not at the knight as he spoke, “They…take a very twisted pride in what they are capable of. And what they are capable of is monstrous. But if your mech’s contact is truly an institute mech, from what I’ve gathered of them, he may be able to reverse at least some of the damage done. But Redline will not be healthy, nor will he likely be sane.”

 

“But he can recover?”

 

“Possibly. It depends in large part on his will to push past and move on. And in no small part on _what_ exactly they do to him.”

 

~~~~~

Axe led them into the city through an old drainage pipe, and Rung and Whirl both enjoyed for once being lithe, small, and less heavily armored as they watched the knights struggle ahead of them through the cramped space. A servo on Whirl’s arm was enough to stem the tide of insults and teasing that surely wanted to escape, but not the snickers.

 

Those didn’t stop till they’d surfaced from the tunnel into a side alley, and the noise of a city in motion drowned him out. Rung couldn’t quite help but flinch away at particularly loud noises as they walked, and was grateful for Wing’s silent support as he drew close, one servo wrapped around his shoulders. Whirl cozied up on Rung’s other side, and Rung could stop the pity he felt for the slender mech. The noises and bright lights and even the _smells_. None of it was tribe, and all of it was overwhelming.

 

It didn’t help that they drew attention as they moved through the bustling streets. Three knights escorting what were _clearly_ two tribesmechs? Rung cursed himself for not thinking of removing their tribal markings before they entered the city, but ultimately admitted to himself that there would have been no use. They obviously didn’t fit in, even the way they moved just screamed nomad. But it would have been nice to not draw quite so much attention as yet another mech stopped in their tracks to stare.

 

“What was the purpose of sneaking in? We’re drawing quite a lot of attention anyway.” Rung whispered when Wing leaned in close at his prompting.

 

“The gates are always guarded by mechs funded by the council. Word would have gotten back far sooner. At least this way it will have to travel by the gossip route instead of straight to the council chambers from the source.”

 

It made a strange sort of convoluted sense, Rung supposed. Really, did it matter how they heard about it? They were going to know they were in the city before they got out, either way. But he _had_ enjoyed watching Wing crawl through the tunnel in front of him. It was the only part of this mission so far that he cared for.

 

Axe stopped them under a nondescript overhand on a side street, knocking on the door so softly Rung questioned if anyone would hear it on the other side. After a moments waiting, it drew open a crack, just wide enough for a mech to peek out with one optic.

 

“Tumbler? It’s Axe. We spoke a few weeks back?” The door opened, and they were ushered inside by a tall orange and white bot. He shut and locked the door behind them, servos shaking as he input the codes.

 

“It’s-ah…It’s Chromedome now. Files were all changed by the Institute a few days ago. It’s a more fitting name, apparently.”

 

“I’ll call you whichever designation you prefer, lad.” Axe said, putting a comforting servo on Chromedome’s shoulder wheel. Chromedome didn’t respond, ushering them through the little entryway into a communal area teeming with stacks upon stacks of datapads.

 

“What’s going on?” A minibot stood in the doorway to the next room, watching them suspiciously.

 

“Rewind!” Chromedome seemed at a loss, gesturing wordlessly to the assembled mechs while ‘Rewind’ fixed the taller mech with a powerful look despite the visor and mask, and tapped his pede impatiently.

 

“You must be his conjunx, I’m Axe.” Axe offered a servo and a smile, somehow managing to make the fact that he had to stoop to be on level with the small bot not seem like an insult.

 

Rewind studied him for a moment before taking the servo offered. The minibot chose not to stay as they spoke of their removal from the city, instead retreating to their energon dispenser to fill cubes for their guests. When he came back with the tray stacked with glittering pink cubes, the knights all graciously accepted the offered refreshments.

 

He turned to Rung and Whirl, both squished together awkwardly with Wing on a small sofa, holding out the cubes for them. Whirl ignored him in favor of the conversation, and left it to Rung to find a polite way to deny the weak, ineffectual fuel.

 

“You’re nomads, right? So you really don’t drink processed fuel?” Rewind seemed to take no offense at the refusal, setting the tray down on a side table and clambering up to perch on the arm of the sofa. He appeared not at all disturbed to be leaning almost into the rotor’s lap to speak with Rung, and the little red light on the side of his helm flashed on.

 

Rung found himself at a loss for words, staring at the light of what he could only assume was an external recorder while the minibot peppered him with questions. Before he could finish answering one, Rewind had found two more for him, and Whirl was all but shaking to hold in his laughter at the exchange. The bot had questions on everything from how they found fuel (with no judgment or disgust shown when Rung haltingly explained the normally abhorred process of hunting), to the markings and optical covers they both wore, to the reason why they moved around so frequently.

 

It seems the other bots had finished discussing their plans to rescue Redline while Rung and Whirl were grilled by Rewind, and Chromedome laughed as he reached out and hooked a servo around Rewind’s waist.

 

“Rewind, your archivist is showing.” He teased, tugging the other mech off his perch and pressing his mask to the top of his helm.

 

“I’ve never met a nomad before! We’ve got so little useful information about them, about their culture, it just-“

 

“It’s quite alright, er…Chromedome?” The mech nodded for Rung to continue, “It’s actually a nice change from the normal interactions we have with city mechs, I can assure you!”

 

Whirl snorted, flexing his stabilizing wings and clipping Rung’s audial in a clear sign of ‘speak for yourself’ that he chose to ignore. Adjusting his goggles once more, he leaned forward and smiled at Rewind and Chromedome. Hopefully nobody could see the way he wormed digits into Whirl’s hip, pinching a neural line in a silent admonishment for the rotor to behave.

 

“Well, maybe, after this is all over, and we’re all safely out of the city, you two can talk to your sparks content?”

 

“I’d like that.” Rung found that he meant what he said, and looked forward to another chat with the little archivist. In the meantime, they only had to worry about getting out in one piece…


	16. Chapter 16

In the end, getting into the ‘Institute’ would be far simpler than Rung had feared.   
  
Chromedome passed a small key card to Dai Atlas, with an explanation on how to find the entrance in the back of a Relinquishment Center. “The card is keyed to my code. It’ll open the door in the back for you without setting off any alarms. From there, you’re on your own, there’s nowhere to hide and cameras watch every single move a mech makes.”  
  
“Then won’t they come after you once they see that your card let in a servo-full of unwelcome mechs?” Dai Atlas said, looking sidelong at Rewind, who sat still on the arm of the couch, swinging his legs and showing Rung a servo-full of Relinquishment Center commercials when he asked after the purpose of the centers. It was something new, he was sure. Why would the Functionists allow frame swapping, even temporarily? It went against everything they claimed to stand for.  
  
Rewind tried explaining it to them, how the upper class mechs used it as ‘vacation’ time, and the council condoned it.  
  
“Probably because of which caste is doing the using, and which castes are ‘donating’ their frames to be used.” Rewind had snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring out their front window. From where their building was located, they could just see the top of the center’s roof in the distance.  
  
“It’s barbaric.” Axe sighed. He cast a sidelong glance at Whirl and Rung, and smiled apologetically. “Far more barbaric than you lot could ever hope to be.”  
  
Rung chose to say nothing. What could he say? He’d found city mechs to be far more barbaric in general. One of his biggest fears was to find out he was an awful mech before the council got hold of him. They altered his very mind, locking away his memories, or deleting them, he couldn’t be sure. So obviously he wasn’t the same mech as before, but the question was, how different was he?  
  
Wing shifted, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him closer. Rewind was watching them closely, the little red light on the side of his helm blinking, but Rung found he didn’t care at all if the minibot recorded them. It would be nice if the cities saw that they were just normal bots.  
  
“They’ll come here right away. But we won’t be here. We’ll be waiting for you at the exit point I told you about. Hopefully, you’ll be able to meet up with us there. If not… we’ll handle it…” Chromedome steadfastly refused to look at Rewind, twisting his servos in his lap, massaging the pads of his fingers, pushing on them in a way that screamed newly formed habit. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there’s a good possibility that your friend won’t be himself when you find him.” Chromedome said, and even with the visor, they could all tell he was staring at Whirl. The rotor ignored the sudden attention, snatching Rung up off the couch and setting him in Wing’s lap so he could turn, stabilizer wings filling the now empty space, and lean into Rewind’s face to eye the red light.  
  
Rewind leaned back, loosing his balance and nearly tumbling off the side. Whirl grabbed his pede, setting him right and then reaching up to tap the little lens.  
  
Rung kept an eye on the pair as Rewind explained how the camera worked, but most of his focus was on Chromedome.  
  
“It’s possible that he’ll be made into a sort of ‘sleeper agent’. If they order him to turn on you, he’ll do so without remorse.”  
  
“Then it’s a good thing we’ve got you, yea? You can fix him, right?” Axe smiled, but Rung could see he didn’t mean it, optics dim, field worried. He picked at a weld line, nearly invisible, along his right wrist, and Rung wanted to reach out, still his servos, maybe help him find a better, healthier way to deal with his concern.   
  
“Get him to me, and I’ll do what I can.”   
  
~~~~~  
  
When they left, with a spark felt wish of good luck from both mechs, Wing didn’t waste time pulling Rung up against his side, shielding him from the stares of civilians as they walked past.   
  
Whirl held his helm up proudly, glaring at anyone who got in his way, despite Rung’s admonition that “Really, Whirl, you’re drawing more attention, stop that!” the fifth time Whirl clicked his claws menacingly in the direction of a passerby.  
  
It did no good, and Rung was grateful when they made it to the building housing the Center, and the Institute beneath.   
  
He stuck close to Wing as they’d walked in the front door of the building, keeping his optics fixed firmly on the jet’s back. The sway and swish of skirting panels was almost enough to distract him from where they were and what they were walking in to.  
  
Almost.  
  
A screen above the door leading into the back flashed with a canned message that read ‘All relinquishment technicians are currently busy. Your business is very important to us, please wait and someone will be right with you!’ in a canned vocal signature pitched to sound like a perky femme. It repeated over and over, broken up only by the same commercials that Rewind had shown him back at their apartment.  
  
Dai ignored the message, walking under the screen and touching the key card against the ident-pad, holding it there while the others filed in ahead of him. The back room was lined with long term med berths, empty frames hooked up to support systems in all but a few.   
  
“What…what happens to the bots who own these frames?” Rung asked, even as he wondered if he really wanted to know.  
  
Wing spared a glance to the side, looking at a freshly polished flight frame and shaking his helm. All the wax and polish on Cybertron couldn’t hide the signs of neglect and starvation that pinched the frame and wore away at the plating.  
  
“Supposedly, the sparks are put in storage, to be returned to their frames when their contracts are up. Thing is, the only bots who do this are ones who are in debt in a bad way. They own shanix to spine crackers and loan sharks. So their contract is only up when their debt is paid off. Maybe a flight frame or triple changer could pay off the debt this way, but most grounder frames just don’t make enough to get out from under the interest. If there really are storage chambers for the sparks, they surely gutter out long before a debt can be paid. And that’s a pretty big if.”  
  
“People come here to die…” Axe sighed, letting his servo hover over the frames as they passed. There were no EM fields to stir, no signs of life in any of the bots. It was a sad sight, and one Rung doubted he’d ever forget.  
  
“Hurry up,” Dai Atlas snapped, standing on the far side of the room near the door marked with the glyphs for ‘maintenance supplies’ that Chromedome had told them about, “These sparks are long gone, and there’s nothing we can do for them. We need to get in and get out before anyone raises an alarm.”  
  
The door opened onto a long, steep staircase heading down into the basement of the building, lit by overhead bulbs that cast stark shadows ahead of them on the stairs. No matter how quietly they tried to move, every pedestep echoed in the narrow stairwell.  
  
At the bottom of the stairs was another door, but it was left open, ident-pad glowing green from recent entry. Beyond the door, they could hear voices; mechs talking to one another over the beep and hum of equipment.   
  
“Honestly, Lobe. Be quick about it, I do need to get to his brain module covered back up at some point today.”   
  
They froze, listening carefully to the sounds of mechs working on the other side of the doorway. Wing pushed Rung back, and Whirl put himself between the smaller mech and what lay beyond, bristling with charge that Rung knew would funnel straight into violent actions. Dai Atlas and Axe were speaking in the servo signs he’d seen them use earlier, faces flat and grim, optics narrowed.  
  
Without a word, they went through the door as one unit, Dai Atlas going high and to the right, Axe ducking low and to the left. Wing rushed in behind them, heading straight forward and leading Whirl only by scant micrometers. The rotor was eager to do some damage. Eager, even by the insane standards he normally set.  
  
In the middle of the room, a servo-full of mechs stood, frozen, staring at them with wide optics. Nurses scattered, ducking behind monitoring equipment, dropping tools and supplies to the floor as they went. They left behind two mechs, both with servos buried under the plating of a mech bearing the symbols of a medic.   
  
The top of the medic’s helm had been cut away, leaving the inner workings of his mind exposed to the air, and the tender mercies of the ‘doctors’ standing to either side of him.  
  
It was silent, save for the beeping of a spark monitor.  
  
Then Whirl snarled, engines revving. Wing grabbed him just as he charged past, holding him back.  
  
“Don’t. They could hurt Redline!” Wing hissed, keeping his voice pitched low so the mechs by the table couldn’t hear him.  
  
“Whirl! It’s been such a long time…” One of the mechs purred, pulling the probes attached to his fingers free of Redline’s brain module and flicking little drips of energon away carelessly. He stepped forward, spreading his servos wide at his sides and smirking. The multiple lenses that had been hovering over his optics rose to the top of his helm as he spoke, amber optics glinting.   
  
Whirl jerked against Wing’s grip, but the jet held tight, using every bit of his height and weight over the smaller copter to keep him in place.  
  
“So good to see you again. I’m glad to see our original subject was such a rousing success!” Rung looked between the doctor and Whirl, and stepped forward to put a servo on Whirl’s hip.  
  
“Get back eyebrows.” He snarled, pinching at Wing’s wrist to try and loosen his grip.  
  
“You did this to him?” Rung asked quietly, ignoring his friend in favor of pinning the mech with the sickly sweet grin with a venomous look.  
  
“He never told you? Whirl…we were so close, how could you not mention me to your friend?”   
  
“Leave him alone, you’re talking to me now.” Rung barked, stepping between the mechs and widening his stance.  
  
“Eyebrows…” Whirl warned him, yanking his wrist from Wing’s grasp.  
  
“This must be… Rung, was it? I only ever knew you as subject twelve, of course, but I’ve seen the files. You really should be dead.” The cheer in the other mech’s voice was horrifying as he toyed with a scalpel in his servos. “I’d love to see how your scars have healed, we should have plenty of time to play-oh…I see you back there, you sneaky knights. Go ahead and take him, we’re done with him for the time being. Redline?”  He waggled a finger at Dai Atlas and Axe, who had circled around the edges of the room to get to their medic while everyone was distracted.  
  
Redline rose from the berth, slow and mechanical, while nurses scrambled to pull the cables free from his diagnostic ports. The top of his helm gaped open, brain module visible as it crackled with charge.  
  
“Redline?” Axe said cautiously, inching forward with a servo outstretched for the other mech. He promptly pulled it away when the medic lashed out with a blade snatched from the medical cart, nicking an energon line that sprayed pink over Axe’s servo.   
  
“As I said. We’re done with him. Rung, care to join us?” The mech turned back to Rung, Whirl, and Wing, smiling that sickly smile.  
  
“I’d rather not. Fix him. Now.” Rung said firmly, quashing down the spike of fear in the pit of his tank, servos tense on his staff.  
  
“But we did, Rung. We’ve fixed him, as we failed to fix you. Our techniques have greatly improved since you were last a visitor here. I’d be more than happy to demonstrate, if you’d like.” An alarm went off, warning lights bathing the room in red.   
  
“Redline! Calm down, we’re here to save you!” Axe and Dai were struggling to subdue the medic, who thrashed and fought in their grip, knocking over berth and cart, and biting, clawing and kicking at any available surface like a wild thing, despite his still open helm and vacant optics.  
  
Whirl rushed past Rung with a snarl of flight engines, tackling the mech between them to the floor.   
  
“Whirl!” Rung and Wing both shouted. The rotor was perched on the smaller mech’s abdomen, claws around his throat.  
  
There was a shuddering gasp as Redline was knocked offline, slumping in-between the two knights now supporting his dead weight.   
  
Whirl didn’t respond, raising one claw and driving it through the mech’s chest. His optics went offline, and his frame jerked and seized around the claw piercing his internals.  
  
All was silent for a moment, save the alarm klaxon. The nurses huddled in the corner stared wide optiked at their fallen companion, and the secondary doctor had disappeared through a back door, presumably the one to set off the alarm.  
  
“Whirl…we could have used him to get safely out of the city…” Rung all but whispered, staring at Whirl’s back as he pulled his claw out of the floor it had embedded in when it pierced straight through the other side of the doctor’s flimsy plating.  
  
“Deserved worse.” Whirl muttered, flicking the burnt energon from his claw and refusing to make optic contact.   
  
“Let’s go, teach the barbarian right from wrong after we’re out of here!” Dai Atlas snapped, hoisting Redline into his arms and letting Axe take the lead as they headed out the door back into the clinic.   
  
But despite the alarm, there wasn’t a single mech between them and the exit.   
  
~~~~~  
  
Surprisingly, they didn’t garner any more attention carrying the slack, open helmed medic through the city than they had on the way in with just the nomads to make a spectacle. Rung had anticipated screaming, running, guards and blaster fire. Instead, they got a few stares as they raced through the allies ringing the market set up in the middle of the city, and one or two requests for spare Shanix from beggars slumped down in the gutters.   
  
Chromedome and Rewind were waiting in the service tunnel as promised, speaking in low voices as they ran up, and Wing grabbed Chromedome’s arm on the way by, Rung following suit with Rewind, pulling them to their pedes and dragging them out into the desert and the relative promise of safety the whipping winds and burning sun provided.   
  
The city bots tired long before they did, slowing down after the city was out of sight behind multiple dunes and hours of movement. Chromedome threw himself out of vehicle mode, collapsing face first in the sand with Rewind draped across his back.  
  
“Get up.” Dai Atlas said, standing over them, Redline still cradled in his arms. Carrying him over a shoulder would have been easier, but with the open helm and precarious connections of a brain module, the risk of dislodging something was too great. They’d been passing the limp frame back and forth between the knights since leaving the city, though he insisted on taking longer shifts than Axe and Wing, citing his larger frame and strength as the reason.  
  
Rung wondered if maybe it wasn’t that Dai felt guilty for what had happened to the medic, and was literally bearing the weight of his perceived mistake.  
  
Whirl nudged him, pointing at the ground. All around them, little bits of rust and sand bounced and rolled, shifting as the wind picked up speed.  
  
“Actually, Dai Atlas, there’s a rust storm coming. We should set up shelter on the other side of the next dune and wait it out.” Rung said, already pulling the rigging for shelter that he and Whirl and Wing had split between their subspaces and heading in the direction of the next tall mound of sand. It wasn’t the best of shelters, but it would at least protect them from the brunt of the wind if they pressed the shelter directly up to it.  
  
They may have to dig themselves out once the storm passed, but that was preferable to being sandblasted.  
  
Whirl and Rung went about setting up the shelter, and Rung took the time to explain to Wing why they were doing what they did, as they did it. The knight watched, lending a helping servo when Rung pointed to this or that, and soaking up any bit of information he was given with serious optics and a smile.  
  
Once the tent was up and secure, Rung held the flap aside for the mechs to all file in, studiously avoiding making optic contact with the little red light on Rewind’s helm that had started blinking as soon as he’d been able to peel himself off of Chromedome’s back.  
  
Wing squeezed his free servo, and stepped around him, into the tent, and Rung let the flap fall shut. Whirl was standing far out in between the dunes, optic locked on the sky, and the far away dust cloud gathering strength and speed. It would be on them before long.  
  
“Whirl? Are you coming in?” He edged up to the rotor, close enough for their fields to brush. Whirl’s shrank away, drawing in under his armor as his antenna flattened back and his stabilizers drew up. “Whirl? Do you … want to talk about it?”  
  
“M’Fine, eyebrows. Problem dead now.” Whirl dropped to the sand, pulling his legs up to his chest and staring off into the distance. Rung was pretty sure he wasn’t even seeing the storm anymore. He didn’t know what he was seeing, or what he was thinking. So he said nothing, settling down next to the mech and folding his servos in his lap. They sat quietly for long moments, the whistle and howl of the wind distant, Whirl digging in the sand with his pedes.  
  
Finally, “Saw you, you know. Back then.”  
  
“Yes, I know, Whirl. You saved my life the day you found me and brought me back to the tribe.”  
  
“No. Before.”  
  
Rung blinked, twisting to look at the rotor. Whirl looked away, rubbing the back of a claw over the side of his helm.  
  
“Trepan took helm, servos. Said for science. See if mech survive. Showed you, one time. Offline, opened up. Said was testing for you. Whirl just test subject.”  
  
“They…they did this to you because of me?” He whispered, horrified. One servo reached up to touch him, but he pulled it back into his lap when he noticed how badly it was shaking.   
  
Whirl shrugged, reaching down with his claws to pile sand over his pedes. “Don’t blame eyebrows. Blame Trepan. Now Trepan dead. Problem solved.”  
  
“I’m so so sorry, Whirl.” He resisted the urge to hug the mech, but only just barely. Knowing Whirl, he’d push him off with a laugh and some silly comment about how he was ‘unvincible' (and by Primus had Rung tried to convince the mech that wasn’t a word.) and didn’t need the touchy feely junk. In far fewer words, and far more claw clicks.   
  
Whirl surprised him when he threw an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in for a brief hug, more a bumping of plating really.   
  
“Not Eyebrows fault. Eyebrows not ask for it.”  
  
“No, but-“  
  
“Not. Eyebrows. Fault.” The claw on his shoulder tapped warningly against his arm, and he held up his servos in surrender.  
  
“Of course, Whirl. You’re right.”  
  
“Duh.” He snorted, a puff of sand kicking up in front of them at the forceful exhale. When it didn’t settle back down, but whipped up into the now much closer cloud, Whirl pulled him to his pedes and shoved him towards the tent. “Time’s up, Eyebrows. Inside, now.”  
  
They ran for the tent, and the sand and rust and wind whipped overhead just as they pulled the skins closed. They settled down with the others, Rung in Wing’s lap despite the scowl it earned him from Dai Atlas, and Whirl next to them.   
  
Chromedome and Axe were bent over Redline’s prone frame, taking up a good amount of space in the suddenly much smaller tent. Rung could see now why the city mech had been picking at his fingers before, getting a good look at the needle like probes up close and not stained with energon for the first time.  Hopefully, the mnemosurgeon would be able to do something for the poor medic.  
  
In the meantime, all that was left to do was wait out the storm.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::screams:: FINALLY! 17 chapters it took you two to work this out! 
> 
> Warning: This is the happy chapter.
> 
> Shit goes downhill from here.
> 
> Just thought I'd give you a heads up :)
> 
> Also, spikes are based off of [this design](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/119625094368/adhesivesandscrap-heres-my-little-addition-to-the), which they were actually made for, but it took these two so long to do anything, that this design's been used multiple times in other fics first! XD

Thankfully, the storm passed without incident, while Chromedome kept Redline in forced stasis. The one time he’d tried to pull him out of it, to see how cognizant he actually was, the medic punched him across the audial before his optics had even onlined. Needless to say, Chromedome didn’t plan on repeating that.  
  
“I’m not going to work on him out here in the sand and grit anyway. One wrong move, one stray sand particle, and your friend is gone.” Chromedome said by way of explanation, carefully cleaning the open top of the medic’s helm and sealing it off with some antistatic sheeting he’d had in his subspace, ‘just in case’.   
  
Rung and Whirl looked at each other and started giggling. A mech after Ratchet’s spark, it seemed. Dai Atlas shot them a glare, while Axe scooted up next to Rung and asked for the story. Soon, all three were laughing, and Wing right along with them. He hadn’t heard the full story about Ratchet’s inauguration yet, only the scraps the medic had fed him that first day they met.   
  
The storm didn’t last very long, and as soon as they were packed, they were on the move again. Dai Atlas kept the pace fast and unforgiving. Axe and Wing, both used to his demands, had no problems keeping up. Rung and Whirl found the pace almost leisurely, no faster than what they were used to, returning from a hunt or a raid.   
  
The city mechs, on the other servo, had problems, and often fell behind. Rung showed them how to adjust their fuel conservation programming, which helped a little, giving them more energy than the settings usually employed inside the city walls called for, but he could do nothing for the aches and pains. By the next morning, after a too short stop to rest, and with strut deep exhaustion creeping in, all he could do for the poor mechs was promise they were nearly there.   
  
“Hey, Rung?” Rewind asked during a brief pause for energon and to check on Redline’s status. His servos shook around his cube, and he watched as Rung popped a piece of turbo-deer into his mouth.  
  
Rung hummed, busy enjoying the burst of fuel over his gloss.  
  
“How’d you know how to fiddle with that program yesterday? The conservation one?”   
  
He shrugged, cleaning off his fingers for the last little traces of energon and smiling at the way Rewind watched his every move without judgement or disgust, just a genuine, academic interest.  
  
“We adjust constantly, depending on what we’re doing, depending on the season, the availability of food, the weather, there are dozens of factors that help decide what sort of levels need to be set for fuel consumption. You don’t, because you don’t need to. You have food readily available at all times, and you aren’t doing heavy manual labor.” The little red light was blinking again, and Rung wondered if the archivist ever actually shut the thing off, or if he was just running a constant recording. His memory banks must be _massive_. And _crowded_.  
  
Noticing the way he continued to stare at the jar in Rung’s servo, he held it out in offering. They hadn’t been able to hunt much for the pace they were keeping, and so they’d been dipping into the jars of reserve they’d brought with them in case of emergency. The bits of meat sloshed around, pink clinging to the sides of the jar. Rewind hesitated a moment, clearly unsure.  
  
“It’s not bad, honestly.” Wing chimed in, seeing what was going on and offering the minibot a smile as he reached over Rung’s shoulder and plucked up a smaller piece to pop in his mouth. It was all the encouragement the mech needed, fishing out a piece of his own and studying it carefully.  
  
Instinct had Rung wanting to tell him not to waste energon, as the mech watched the pink fluids drip down his fingers for a moment, but he knew the mech was recording it, and bit his glossa. Eventually, he did take a bite after sliding his blast mask aside, carefully ripping off a small bit with his dentae and copying Wing’s chewing motions. His visor brightened, and he grinned, finishing off the bit in his servo.  
  
“That’s…not bad! Interesting, different, but not bad!” Rung laughed, shaking the jar at him to encourage him to take another piece. He had two more jars in subspace, and this one was still more than half full. They would make it to the citadel in another few hours at the most, and then they could be on their way, free to hunt to their sparks content. He could spare a few more pieces if the mech wasn’t going to waste them as he’d originally feared.   
  
Before long they were on the move again, Rung nestled inside Wing’s cockpit, curled up in the soft seat, fingers stroking over the edges of the console absentmindedly. Rewind had luckily been small enough to fit inside Whirl’s cockpit, much like he and Wing. Chromedome had been stuck being carried by Axe in root mode, much as Dai did with Redline.  
  
“What’s on your mind?” Wing asked, catching back up with Whirl and the other fliers. He was taking such care to make sure Rung didn’t get sick again, banking in long, lazy arcs instead of tight, dizzying dips like the others. It meant he had to play catch up anytime they deviated from a straight line, but Rung wasn’t going to argue. He appreciated the consideration the jet was making for him, more than he could say.  
  
“…Are we going to leave once they’re returned to the citadel?” Rung finally asked, setting his servos in his lap and biting his lip.  
  
Wing was quiet for a moment, and he couldn’t be sure if the other mech was thinking, or if he was talking with someone, or what. Nerves fluttered in his tank, worried that he’d upset the other mech by wanting to leave so quickly. How could he explain to Wing, to a mech who grew up in the cities and was used to the press of so many strangers fields and frames, that he was completely overwhelmed. So was Whirl, he could tell from the nervous energy that powered his every move the last few days. And after their encounter with one of his tormentors at the institute, he just wanted to be back in the safety of the tribe, where everyone looked out for one another, and nobody had to worry that they were going to be made to disappear for not fitting someone’s ideals of the perfect society.  
  
The crackle of static as Wing reset his vocalizer pulled him out of his musings.  
  
“I’d hoped to stay the one night at New Crystal City. It’s already getting late in the cycle, and I want to talk to Dai Atlas before we leave. Plus, I’d like to pack a few things from my room to take with this time round, now that I know I won’t be coming back any time soon.” He could hear the smile, the gentle teasing, in the way Wing spoke, and relaxed back into the seat. He hadn’t even noticed how tensed up he’d become as the silence had stretched on.  
  
“We can leave at first light, or even before, if you’d like. I know how unhappy you and Whirl are, here.”  
  
“I’m not-“  
  
“You are, Rung. You don’t have to pretend to enjoy the city for my benefit.” The safety harness tightened across his chest, holding him secure and hugging him by proxy. The lights in the cockpit dimmed, and Rung could almost feel him sigh around him. His fingers curled into the harness, thumbs stroking the coarse weave gently.  
  
“I didn’t enjoy _that_ city. I haven’t really _seen_ yours yet. So I can’t say I’m unhappy with it.” He started, trying to find the right words to explain, “I don’t…I don’t want you to think I can’t appreciate your home, you’ve done so well learning my ways. But it’s different here. Bigger. Crowded. And it does make us uncomfortable. But we can stay a night, for you. That’s no problem.” He turned his helm, pressing a kiss to the side of the seat and offlining his optics.  
  
~~~~~  
  
The gates were already opened when they came up on the city, and there was no pause, no landing outside the walls as before. They flew straight through the open gates, following the path leading up to the towering spire of the citadel proper, and only stopped when they reached the front doors.  
  
Redline was taken from Dai Atlas and rushed out, Chromedome running alongside the gurney and speaking in low tones to the medics setting up monitoring equipment on the move.  
  
“C’mon lad, I’ll show you to your room. Least till we can get you set up with something a bit more permanent, yea?” Axe clapped a servo down on Rewind’s shoulder.  
  
“Show these two to Wing’s quarters, Axe? I’d like to speak with Wing for a moment.” Dai Atlas said, motioning for Wing to follow him. He watched over his shoulder as the two were lead away, following behind Rewind, who chattered excitedly about the architecture and history of the temple.  
  
“Sir?” He fell in step beside the larger mech, habit quickening his slightly shorter strides to keep up.   
  
Dai Atlas didn’t speak for long moments, optics straight ahead as they wandered the corridors of the inner temple aimlessly. Wing would smile and nod at knights as they passed, each having a congratulatory word on his safe return.   
  
Eventually, after nearly half an hour of relatively silent walking, he stopped in his tracks and sighed.  
  
“Sir? You have to say something eventually. I’d rather it be _before_ I left.” Dai Atlas’ shoulders rose up to near his audials at the statement, and he rounded on the smaller knight with a snarl on his face that Wing had never seen before. Sure, he’d seen their leader angry, no mech was perfect, no matter how they tried. But this. This anger was something they were instructed to give up upon entry into the Circle. He bit his glossa, wisely waiting out the pacing that ensued while Dai Atlas tried to find the right words.  
  
What finally came out surprised him more than the anger.  
  
“I want you to be _happy_ , Wing.” It was like the fight had gone out of him, his strings cut, as his whole frame slumped. He pinned Wing with a cool stare, and Wing found himself fidgeting.   
  
“I…” He swallowed down his immediate protest of ‘I _am_ happy’. Their leader had given him a lot over the years, besides just a roof over his helm and fuel every day. He was gruff, and strict, but he’d not said word one about all the unauthorized flights Wing took over the years, the strays he brought in without prior approval. He owed him at least a few minutes contemplation, and some well thought out words.  
  
Dai Atlas waited, servos balled into fists the only sign that he was anything other than calm.  
  
“Sir, I think I _am_ happy. Happier than I’ve been in a while.”  
  
“He’s a _nomad_.” He hissed, flinging his arms wide to encompass all that meant.   
  
“So? They’re not as savage as we think they are, with all due respect. Rung has treated me with nothing but patience and kindness. He’s made it clear that he cares for me, and he’s asked me to be his partner.” Probably, he shouldn’t have just dropped that sort of announcement on the larger mech, but it just kind of slipped out at the end.   
  
“What?” He was right, he should have been more tactful. Dai’s frame had gone rigid, knuckles creaking under the stress and strain of his servos balling up tighter still.  
  
“I think you heard me the first time, sir.” Wing smiled, hoping to diffuse the tense feelings choking the knight’s field.  
  
“You’ve known him a less than a _month_.” Dai countered.  
  
“Less than two weeks, unless I was unconscious longer than I thought.” Wing pointed out, and why in the name of Primus was he not filtering his responses better? “But that’s enough time for me to realize that these people aren’t deceitful. It doesn’t even _occur_ to them to lie. If Rung loves me, he means it, there’s nothing for him to gain out of it other than, hopefully, a loving partner.”  
  
“Or a willing frag.”   
  
“Sir, with all due respect, please, don’t say something like that again, not in front of me, and especially not in front of Rung.” His voice went chilly, his field flat and tight. Dai Atlas winced back from the sudden change, optics widening in realization.  
  
“You love him?”  
  
Two deep, slow vents, to let him think. There was no good answer to that question. Any response he gave would probably anger him. But at least he could show him he was thinking before throwing out random answers.  
  
Finally, “I think I do, yes sir. Rung is kind, and he’s…different. He’s survived so much, and he shouldn’t have. He’s strong, but he’s not malicious. The kind of things he’s been through? It would harden most mechs, make them vicious, angry. Rung’s risen above it, as you’ve taught us to do. He’s become the ideal knight, without ever meeting one. I respect his strength, and his courage. And yes, I’m coming to love him, more with each new day and every challenge he faces.” He winced when long moments stretched between them in stony silence. “Please, sir. I’m not going to change my mind just because you don’t approve. But, I’d like it very much if you did, your opinion means a lot to me.” He risked reaching out with one servo to touch a grey forearm.   
  
He just sighed, scratching at one pointed yellow helm spire. Wing tried desperately to hide his grin. The larger mech didn’t have many tells, but this was one. Axe had pointed it out to him years ago, told him that it was ‘a sign the hard-helm was cracking under logic’.   
  
“Wing, the council is getting restless.” He said, accompanied by a heavy ex-vent. “They’re starting to talk of eradicating the nomadic tribes for the safety of the cities. Wells are starting to dry up, energon isn’t as plentiful as it once was.”  
  
“So they push focus onto a different problem, placate the masses by turning them against a common enemy that isn’t the council.” Wing guessed. It wasn’t the first time they named a scapegoat to keep the people happy and docile.  
  
“Things are going to get ugly here, very soon. Why do you think they wanted control of New Crystal City?”  
  
Horror dawned on Wing, flooding his field as he put two and two together. Dai Atlas nodded somberly, faceplates drawn down in a saddened frown.  
  
“An army of knights at their disposal…” Wing choked out, locking optics with the taller mech, looking for any signs of disagreement. He found none. The knot building in the pit of his tank tightened, grew. Half processed energon rose in the back of his intake, burning and drawing tears to his optics. If they’d succeeded, if Dai Atlas had agreed to turn over control of the city to them in exchange for Redline, there would be sweeping changes made. Not the least of which would probably be ‘attitude recalibration’ for every Knight in the citadel. They would be puppets for the Functionists, a slave army with deadly skill to be pointed at whatever the council deemed a threat.   
  
“Do you understand now, why I worry?”   
  
“This is only more reason for me to go back. Even if I didn’t love Rung, which I really, honestly, truly believe I do, but even so, they need to be warned. I don’t know what help I can offer, but what I have to give, I will gladly give. They’re not barbarians, sir. They’re just people.”  
  
“You’re always ready to give everything you are for someone else…” Dai Atlas chuckled, and Wing’s spark bloomed with hope, flooding out into his field for the other knight to feel.  
  
“Helping another is the highest calling one can aspire to.” His mouth quirked up into a grin, and Dai Atlas blinked at him, then chuckled.  
  
“There’s no talking you out of this, is there?”   
  
Wing shook his helm, resolution and apology pushed into his field in equal measure.  
  
“Well then…it looks like we may just have ourselves an ambassador to these people.”   
  
~~~~~  
  
Wing stopped outside his door, staring at the plain, unadorned metal, deep in thought. His conversation with Dai Atlas went far smoother than was expected, and he was surprised to find that yes, he was absolutely sure he was doing the right thing. Already, he felt funny even thinking about abandoning Rung and returning to the same old routine in New Crystal City. He’d never be able to guard a caravan again without thinking about the beauty and the danger he’d seen in the short time he’d been with the tribe. Sleeping in a berth seemed so weird, so formal, and if Rung had a nest built up on the floor, he’d gladly join him there instead.  
  
Sighing, he keyed in his code, and stepped through into a war zone.  
  
“Whirl?!” The rotor was sitting happily in the middle of a pile of dismantled….things, claws clicking and spinning gleefully, if claws could express emotions other than ‘destruction’. He twirled a thin gear around a little protrusion from one of his claw tips and winked his optic up Wing. Well, it could have been a blink, but Wing was going to bet he was winking.  
  
“Sup, Shiny?”  
  
“It’s Wing, Whirl.” He deadpanned. Whirl blinked up at him, then they both started to giggle.  
  
“Sound like Eyebrows now, Shiny.”  
  
Wing rolled his optics, picking his way through the multitude of gears and plates and levers and unidentifiable pieces of _stuff_ that littered the floor of the little sitting room. His chambers were small enough as it was, this was only making it worse, he thought, as something crunched under his pede and he jerked back. Bending over to pick a mashed up piece of…plating, possibly?, out of the joints in his pede, he shot Whirl a dirty look. The rotor was cracking up laughing, rolling around in the mess.  
  
“Whirl? Why are there pieces of unidentifiable _things_ all over the floor of my room?” He asked sweetly, a smile on his face and a warning in his field. Whirl rocked over to sit upright, wiping at the optical cleaner streaking down his helm, and held out his claws. The tips broke apart into multi-tools, and Whirl demonstrated, picking up the half dismantled something he’d been fiddling with to pull it apart. But it wasn’t destructive, no. It was delicate, precise, and the unbridled joy in his field softened Wing’s resolve. He knelt next to him, studying the work up close. It screamed of the ingenuity of the Circle’s medics, and he asked.  
  
“Yep. Doc-bot says can fix. Whirl not want fix, good hunting. Says can make better, then. And did!”   
  
They certainly did, the tiny little gears and arms all working together to move the little claspers Whirl currently had employed.  
  
“Did you show them to Rung yet?”   
  
“Eyebrows says tired, went back there.” Whirl waved him off. Actually, he pushed him, retracting the tools into one claw and shoving him in the direction of the berth room. “Take care of mate, yea? Needs good feel right now.”   
  
“…Just…just clean this all up when you’re done? Please?” He didn’t bother to offer bringing out blankets or cushions, knowing the mech carried furs in his subspace that he’d utilize instead. If he didn’t come out to find the couch turned into the back wall of a tent in the morning, he’d honestly be surprised. The rotor just waved him off, concentration completely locked on the thing in his claws again as Wing walked away.  
  
Just beyond the front room was his berth room, and beyond that would be the wash racks. He knew other city mechs thought the knights were servants who believed in giving everything up, he’d heard the rumors, about how they slept in little niches carved out of the walls of the temples, and there were only communal wash racks, no privacy to be found. It always made him laugh. They built this city from the ground up, why wouldn’t they have built themselves basic comforts? The only communal ‘wash racks’ were the healing springs, and their ‘niches’ in the walls were small, yes, but nowhere near as bleak as they were made out to be.  
  
He intended to inch by the berth, and sneak in a quick rinse to get some of the grit out of his plating, but stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway instead.   
  
Rung was curled up on his berth, under the single, thin blanket that he never put away. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his face buried between them. His plating rattled and shook, and his field was a mess of anger and sadness and a small bit of panic.  
  
It only took a few quick steps to cross to the berth, and Wing didn’t say anything as he climbed in, pulling Rung back against his chest and pressing a kiss to his helm. He tensed in his arms, trying to pull away, but Wing held firm.  
  
“Just me, Rung. Just me.”  
  
Rung didn’t relax like he’d hoped at that. Instead, his struggles turned to twisting in his grip to face him, which Wing was more than happy to allow. Once Rung was situated to his liking, Wing pulled him in tight, throwing one leg over his slip hip and trying to tuck his helm under his chin. Rung pulled back though, a frown on his face.  
  
“Rung?” He’d thought the nomad would have enjoyed the closeness, he seemed to want it any other time. Instead, he was pulling away from him, and Wing was a little surprised at how much that hurt.  
  
“He told you to stay?”   
  
“Who? Dai? No, of course not. He asked me to, but I said no, love.” Wing pushed away himself, far enough to squeeze an arm between them and take Rung’s chin in his servo. He tilted his helm up, and locked optics. “Rung, I’m not leaving you. I promise.” He leaned in, offlining his optics and pressing their lips together.  
  
Rung went stiff in his arms again, and he just about pulled away. Like a dam under pressure, Rung’s resistance crumbled, and he threw his arms around Wing’s neck, deepening the kiss and holding tight like he feared being pulled away. Wing’s arm was pinned uncomfortably between them, but he didn’t dare break the moment. When Rung traced the seam of his mouth with his glossa, he parted his lips gladly. Minutes passed this way, swapping heated kisses as their fans cycled up. Eventually, Wing was able to get his arm free, and gladly wrapped it around Rung’s waist, rolling them over and sitting up so Rung straddled his lap, letting his fingers play in the seams he found.  
  
Rung pulled away with a gasp, face flushed and goggles fogged. Smiling, Wing reached up and pushed them back to rest against his helm crest, swiping at the condensation that had built up around his optics.  
  
“You’re not staying here?”   
  
Wing laughed, pressing their foreheads together and kissing Rung’s nose. “I told you, I’m coming with you. I don’t want to leave you Rung. Wherever you want to go, that’s where I’m going, too.”  
  
It wasn’t condensation on Rung’s face now, as optical cleanser built up around the edges of his optics and spilled over. He laughed, a watery little giggle that set off Wing’s own set of giggles. They kissed again between the noises, or through them, Rung unwilling to part and Wing content to stay where he was.  
  
So when Rung asked him, “You really want to be my mate?” there was no hesitation before Wing answered in the affirmative. He laid Rung out on the berth, kneeling over him and leaning down to press kisses to his frame. Each kiss was accompanied by something he liked about the other mech.  
  
“Yes, Rung, I do. I want to be your mate. I love your strength,” A kiss to his crest, “Your compassion,” this one against his cheek, “Your mind,” His throat, which the other mech gladly bared, servos fisting in the thin sheet, “Your perseverance in the face of adversity,” A kiss to his spark glass while Rung giggled. Admittedly, that last one was a bit of a mouthful, but Wing just grinned, mouthing along his abdominal plating in retaliation, and then “Your laugh,” with a kiss to the side of his hip while Rung’s laughter died off in a choked moan, hips twitching away from the sudden, feather light touch. “Your courage,” The soft white metal of his inner thigh, “Your smile,” the inside of his right knee, and his leg twitched away too, plating heating under his touch. “And most of all, your kind spark.” He leaned up, sealing the statement with a long, heated kiss.  
  
Rung squirmed beneath him, lithe frame heating up and servos wandering over his plating to dip into sensitive seams along his back, tracing the connections to his flight panels. He shivered, arms giving out so he was left crouched on his elbows just over Rung, gasping and panting against his audial as those devious fingers wrung out every pleasurable point they could find.  
  
Not trusting himself to not come crashing down on Rung, he settled for nibbling at the neck cables that were conveniently within reach, teasing between them with his glossa and scraping his dentae along individual lines.  
  
He had just enough spare processing power to feel self conscious, Whirl was in the next room, Axe was two doors down, and Dai Atlas could probably hear them and judge them from across the city no matter how quiet they were. But then Rung’s fingers were tracing his skirting panels, dipping beneath to stroke at his hips, and any processing power left was honed in on those slim digits.  
  
“Wing, wait a klik.” Rung’s servos left him, and he whined, pressing his hips down to chase after the touch. Their pelvic plating came in contact and Rung threw his helm back, moaning and grinding up into the touch. “W-Wing. Wait! I want to know you’re ready, please? Talk to me?”   
  
Wing blinked, the fog in his processor clearing a bit. He wanted to know if he was ready? Did the fact that his temperature was climbing so quickly, and his fans were already at their highest setting mean nothing? Something of his confusion must have made it to his face or his field one, because Rung shook his helm, sitting up and pushing Wing back to kneel over his lap. _Primus_ he was so small like this!   
  
“Wing, I want this, more than _anything_ , I want this. But I don’t want you to do this out of pity, or concern, or any misguided attempts to make me happy. Please, tell me you want to do this, too, here and now, that you’re ready?” His spark skipped at beat at the concern in his voice, and his field. How could he think he was doing this for any other reason than because he wanted to? With his whole _spark_ , he wanted this. He told Rung as much, cupping his face between his servos and making sure there was no doubt in Rung’s spark before he leaned in for another kiss.  
  
Things devolved quickly from there, the slide and press of frames slicked with condensation all that he could focus on. Rung’s gentle servos turned insistent, pushing at him till he rolled over, straddling his stomach and peppering his cockpit glass with heated kisses. He slowly, torturously worked his way down Wing’s frame, mouthing at the edges of his skirt panels while his fingers teased at the seams to his panel, already slick with lubricant bubbling up around the seams.   
  
Rung’s mouth on his spike was enough to make him shout, clapping a servo over his mouth and flushing while Rung swallowed around him and snickered. The vibrations traveled straight down his spike and into the knot forming in his tank, coiling tighter when he circled the node on top before pulling off with a pop. One servo picked up where his mouth left off, smearing the oral fluids he left behind, while his mouth traveled further down, suckling on his anterior node and scraping his dentae over it.  
  
He bucked his hips up as a finger from his free servo pressed between the lips of his valve, tracing his rim with a soft touch that tickled and teased at the burn in his tank. Canting his hips, trying to get him to do something, anything other than torment him, he nearly knocked him off his perch between his legs, and only quick thinking on both their parts kept him from tumbling to the floor.  
  
“ _Primus_ , I’m so sorry, Rung.” Wing giggled, hiding his face in his servos and rolling his helm back when Rung retaliated by plunging the teasing finger deep into his valve, pressing against sensor nodes beyond the rim and lighting up his sensor net with pleasure.  
  
“Don’t worry, love. You’ll pay me back.” Rung laughed, diving back in to tease his glowing nub with glossa and dentae, firming the strokes on his spike, he watched with wicked glee as Wing fell apart underneath his servos.  
  
Overload was racing up on his, he could feel it building behind his spike, and he tried to warn Rung, tried to stop him.  
  
“We’ve got plenty of time, love. Overload for me.” It was all the permission he needed, spike plates flaring as his charge dispersed, valve clamping down on the two fingers Rung had worked in while he was distracted.  
  
When he rebooted his optics, sensors coming back online, it was to the sight of Rung kneeling between his thighs, stroking his own spike and watching him with a hungry look in his optics.  
  
“You okay, sweetspark?” Rung asked, free servo tightening on his hip. He moaned in response, nodding and tilting his hips up. Rung didn’t need any further encouragement, sinking his spike into the welcoming heat of Wing’s tight valve. He pressed his face into his cockpit, spinal strut arching when the calipers cycled down, squeezing tight to his spike and adjusting to the already flaring sections of plating.  
  
They weren’t going to last long, Wing could tell. Already, a second charge was building under his plating, valve sensors sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight to his transfluid tank. Rung pulled out till the flared head of his spike stretched at his rim, and Wing moaned, servos grabbing for slim orange hips when the nomad pressed back in, setting a rhythm that had him seeing stars.  
  
Servos pawed at his chest, tracing the seams that would separate the armor plating to reveal his spark chamber, and he parted them without thought, bathing Rung in the pale blue glow of the innermost part of himself. Rung’s own chest plates split around the glass, pulling back, and Wing arched up, biting on his servo to muffle his cries as tendrils of their sparks reached for one another while overload built. One of Rung’s servos found his anterior node again, and that was it. He fell over the edge shouting Rung’s designation for the entire city to hear. Rung stretched up, pressing his spike in as deep as he could go and gaining just enough space for their sparks to touch as he overloaded, charge expelling into swollen, already overcharged sensor nodes and triggering another overload for Wing on the heels of the first.   
  
Their sparks merged, and it was a loop of feedback, overload blurring into overload blurring into overload for what felt like forever as they pressed close together. Armor scraped over armor, and Rung’s spike pulled free of his valve, the smaller mech using that to his advantage to seat their sparks more firmly together and rubbing their spikes over one another for one last, processor charring overload.  
  
They lay panting on the berth, too stunned to even think of moving, of getting cooler air to their intakes. Rung sprawled across Wing’s frame, fingers tracing the still open edges of his spark chamber while their armor expanded, pinging and ticking in the heat.   
  
Wing brought his servos up to Rung’s back, tracing over old weld lines and transformation seams alike, smiling so hard he felt as though his faceplates would split in two. Rung drug himself up with a visible effort and a groan, capturing his lips in a lazy, sloppy kiss.  
  
“BOUT DAMN TIME!” Whirl shouted through the door.  
  
They broke apart, Rung laughing uproariously and pressing his cheek to Wing’s cockpit. Wing groaned, burying his scorching hot face in his servos and trying not to sink through the berth into the bedrock beneath the citadel.  
  
“Go to sleep, Whirl!” Rung shouted towards the door, and rolled off Wing to curl up against his side. “That’s what I plan on doing.” He continued softly, pressing a kiss to the side of Wing’s chest plate and offlining his optics. Wing smiled, still mortified, but content with the nomad pressed up against him, a red hot line of fire against his side slowly cooling down.   
  
He fell asleep with that smile still firmly planted on his face, and Whirl’s laughter a background noise from the other room.


	18. Chapter 18

Waking was a strange experience the next morning. Before any of his processes had begun to boot, he already registered another presence, but not externally. His first sensation on waking was the calm ebb and flow of Wing’s consciousness in his spark. He couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face, didn’t want to, even as the stretch started to ache. As he came back up to speed, slowly, languorously, he flexed his fingers against smooth white plating, tracing the edges where his cockpit joined to his chest plate.

 

Wing stirred under his helm and servos with a soft moan, squirming as Rung’s touches trailed lower.

 

“Morning, sweetspark.” Rung pushed up off his chest, stretching up to catch a quick kiss from Wing’s still sleep-slackened mouth. The knight’s servos came up to grip his hips, anchoring him where he was perched with one leg slung over Wing’s thighs. A quick tug had him climbing up to straddle his lap properly, and suddenly the combination of happiness and desire swirling in his spark didn’t belong solely to him.

 

“And what a way to greet the morning it is.” Wing’s voice was static laden from recharge, crackling and fuzzing as he spoke. Rung moved his hips in little circles, brushing their arrays across one another in a teasing touch that had sparks dancing between them. The servos on his hips tightened, urging him to press down more firmly, but Rung had other plans. Pulling away, he scooted back to sit on Wing’s warm thighs when he was released, bending over to press an open mouthed kiss against his heated panel, and the spike hidden behind it.

 

Wing sighed, raising his servos to tangle in the cushion behind his helm, arching up into the touch. Rung laved his tongue over charged metal in wide swaths, leaving the plating shiny and wet. Wing’s legs beneath him rubbed together and trembled, and he snuck one servo up to trace at the seam of his thighs, teasing against the bit of modesty plating he could reach.

 

Rung’s panel split and slid aside, spike extending into the tight channel of Wing’s thighs, and he rocked his hips, rubbing against plating that positively _vibrated_. Wing’s own panel sectioned back, and he grinned as he swallowed down the clean white and red lines of his spike as it rose up into his waiting mouth.

 

“Oh _Primus!_ R-rung!” Rung hummed around his mouthful, looking up from under his brows at the knight. Wing untangled one servo, reaching down to trace a finger over Rung’s stretched lips, smearing the lubricants bubbling up at the corners of his mouth and then pushing himself up enough on his other servo to cup Rung’s chin and press in a little further, testing his limits.

 

Rung’s optics flickered off, hips thrusting now into the tight press of Wing’s thighs as the other mech pressed up again, knocking against the back of his intake.

 

“Oh, Rung…” Wing gasped, servo shifting to the back of his helm, tweaking his antenna and pressing him down so he could thrust up into his welcoming mouth better. The position left a lot to be desired for them both, but Rung was pliant and allowed himself to be shifted around until Wing was satisfied. “Is this…is this okay?” Rung hummed again around his spike, glossa teasing at the seams of the interlocking plates, his own spike expanding as charge built, trapped as it was between Wing’s legs and his own frame.

 

Then there was no more talking, the warm, comfortable silence of that small berth room broken only by occasional soft whines from Wing’s vocalizer, and the wet sounds of Rung swallowing around the spike pressing into the back of his intake.

 

Fingers tightening on the back of his helm was the only warning he got before Wing’s hips rose up off the berth, a cry ripping free from his vocalizer, his charge dispersing in a crackle and burst over Rung’s glossa.

 

Pulling off, he ran his tingling, numbed glossa up the slowly depressurizing spike as he rutted against Wing’s thighs, pinning them in place and holding them tight between his own when Wing tried to shift, to spread them wide and pull Rung in between them. The pleasure building in the pool of his tank coiled tight as he teased and tapped at sensor nodes with his glossa, still crackling from residual charge and wringing gasping, moaning cries from Wing’s vocalizer as a second, smaller overload rippled through his systems in time with Rung’s own.

 

They lay collapsed together on the berth, gasping for air, fans running full tilt. One of Wing’s servos stroked the back of his helm where it lay against his hip, exventing puffs of hot air over his limp spike.

 

“Definitely a good way to wake up.” Wing finally broke the silence, and Rung couldn’t contain his giggles as he crawled up the jet’s frame to plant a firm kiss on his smiling mouth.

 

“Tomorrow I suppose I’ll just have to do better than ‘good’.”

 

“We’ve got plenty of time love, we’ll have all the mornings we want to practice.” He was still smiling, pressing kisses to Rung’s mouth so that Rung could feel that bright smile against his plating.

 

~~~~~

 

They stood in the courtyard, in the shadow of the citadel, while Wing spoke quietly with Dai Atlas again. Whirl was playing with his new claw mods still, fiddling with the barrels of his chest mounted guns. Rung feared to see the state of his subspace, probably packed full of all the fiddly little things he’d broken apart last night, considering how clean the apartment was when they walked out. Not a gear nor screw to be seen, but also no knick knacks on the shelves or table. Either he stowed them, or burned them, and with Whirl, it was a 50/50 toss up.

 

“Lad, can I talk to you for a klick?” Axe’s servo on his shoulder was massive, brooking no argument as he was steered away from the others and into a side alley.

 

He waited patiently as Axe paced the little space, looking at him, looking away, back and forth until Rung started to get dizzy.

 

“I think I may know what you’re concerned about, and if it’ll put your mind at ease…I love Wing, with all my spark. And I’m going to do everything in my power to make him happy, and safe.”

Axe seemed to accept his statement as fact, staring at him for a long moment while he worked extremely hard to not squirm under the scrutiny.

 

“He’s a good mech…” Axe sighed, still staring at Rung, “Don’t hurt him, and we won’t have a problem.”

 

“I’m surprised, to be honest, that you aren’t keeping him here.” Rung admitted, emboldened by the open concern in the other mechs voice.

 

“You think Dai didn’t try? Wing does what he wants, it just so happens that nine times out of ten, what he _wants_ and what a knight is _supposed to do_ line up perfectly.” He led him back up the alley as he spoke, leaning against the wall just beyond the mouth of the little entry and watching as Wing showed Whirl something he held in his servos, laughing when Whirl fiddled with it with the little waldos in his claw.

 

Wing looked up, catching his eye and grinning. He handed the thing in his servos over to Whirl and held out his empty servo to catch Rung’s as soon as he was close enough.

 

“Ready to head out?” He pressed their foreheads together, squeezing his servo and pressing a kiss to his olfactory ridge. Axe laughed behind them, reaching around to clap them both on the back.

 

“Get a room, you two.” He smirked, leaning into the huddle and winking.

 

“They did, last night. Loud, too!” Whirl giggled, dumping the little mishmash of gears and plating into his subspace and joining in on the other side. Rung laughed, pinching his side. Wing was grinning, even as a blush rose across his faceplates.

 

Dai Atlas cleared his vocalizer behind them, and they broke from the giggling little huddle to turn and face him.

 

“Safe travels, you three. And Wing?” He said haltingly, reaching out for the other mech.

 

“Yes, sir?” He stepped forward, clasping servos with the larger flight frame.

 

“We’re always here if you need us.” Rung bristled, unable to quite contain his jealousy at that, but Axe squeezed his shoulder, leaning down to whisper in his audial.

 

“Easy, lad. He was ours first, we worry about him.” Wing chose that moment to turn around and head for the gate. Rung shrugged off Axe’s servo and rushed to catch up, falling into step beside him while Whirl darted out the gate ahead of them, screaming for the freedom of the desert.

 

~~~~~

 

They’d chosen to walk, no point in wasting resources if they weren’t in a hurry after all. Rung and Whirl both felt more at ease in their own plating with the sun beating down on them and the sand beneath their pedes. Wing was quiet, watching them interact as they tracked down lunch, a few unlucky turbo foxes that had made their den not far from the city. When it came time to hunt for dinner, Wing surprised them both by asking if they could teach him how to hunt.

 

So the afternoon was spent teaching Wing to read the tracks in the desert, how to judge when the quarry had left them based on how filled with sand they were, which way they were headed, where they were likely to go to ground at. Wing soaked it all in silently, and nervously took lead when Rung waved him ahead. The prey they were tracking was a herd of turbodeer, so as long as Whirl and Rung kept an eye out for other predators, the worst Wing could do was spook the herd, and Whirl loved a good ariel chase if that happened.

 

Rung wound up being the one to take down a straggler when they realized that Wing had no long distance weapons suitable for task. He wasn’t yet quiet enough to sneak up on such a skittish mechanimal and take it down with his blades.

 

Whirl gladly carried the carcass, humming to himself as he kicked through the sand. Rung and Wing had stored away the jars of fresh spilt energon in their subspaces to chill, and now walked side by side.

 

Rung noticed that he didn’t say much of anything the whole day. He reached out to squeeze his servo, smiling up at him when the knight tilted his helm down to look at him.

 

“You okay?”

 

Wing shrugged, smiling and squeezing back. “Just a little off, I suppose. Never walked away from the city before knowing I won’t be coming back home.”

 

Rung didn’t know what to say to that. He could point out that they _were_ going home, but he knew that’s not what Wing meant. He wished he could understand the other mech’s point of view, but without his memories from before the desert, he had nothing to base it off of. The best he could do was squeeze his servo again, and walk side by side with the larger mech in a companionable silence for the rest of the day.

 

Camp that night was a cheerful affair, Wing sitting side by side with him, helping to clean the game and stealing chaste little touches here and there as they worked.

 

It wasn’t until Wing had settled down in their furs for the night that Whirl sidled up to him and leaned down to whisper in his audial.

 

“Been followed.” He nodded, he’d noticed as well. Neither nomad had been able to lay optics on their follower it seemed, but they’d both noticed the quick moving shadows, out of place and too large to be their surroundings, or a flying mechanimal.

 

“I can take first watch, get some sleep Whirl.”

 

Whirl waved him off with a claw, settling down with his back to the low fire and staring out into the darkness.

 

“Get sleep, Eyebrows. You take middle watch, Shiny take early watch, when lightest out, yea?”

 

Rung eased himself down next to Wing, debating on waking him up to tell him about the unseen followers. Ultimately, he decided against it, curling up into the warmth of the jet’s frame and drifting off. He could tell him when he woke him for his watch.

 

~~~~~

 

Rung woke with a jolt, and couldn’t figure out why at first. The confusion lifted quickly, as Whirl snarled across the dying fire, and then there was a crackle of energy, and a frame hit the sand. Rung was kicking himself free of their bedding when a strange bot’s face filled his line of sight.

 

The electricity of a prod coursed through his frame, flooding his sensors and setting his limbs to twitching and flailing. The last thing he saw out of the corner of his optic was Wing, bathed in the glow of a prod, shouting as a prod was jammed cruelly between plates and pressed up against his protoform.

 

Then everything went black.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have been updated to reflect this chapter, but just to be on the safe side, this chapter is mostly mental and physical torture. I'm not real good at graphic descriptions, but still, be aware :)

Rung came online in fits and bursts, processes booting and crashing repeatedly as he struggled to get his mind in order. The last thing he remembered was Wing’s face, bathed in the painful blue-white glow of external charge, twisted in a grimace. Then everything had gone dark.

 

That was enough of a shock to send the rest of his systems online in a rush, jumbled and out of order. He jerked, not even sure what direction he was trying to go for with his gyros spinning and his processor feeling like it was floating. Cold bands wrapped arounds his wrists and ankles, hips and throat. He could even feel one across the top of his helm, keeping him from turning to take in his surroundings.

 

When the static cleared from his optics, all he could see was the far wall of the sterile room, blank steel and unmarked by any signage, doors, or windows. Straining his optics to the sides didn’t net him much, only more blank, unmarked walls, and glimpses of his arms, stretched out as he was spread-eagle, and the bands that wrapped around his shoulders and wrists. Looking down got him nothing but blank floor and his own shadow, long dark lines arcing away noting the arms of the harness he was strapped in to. The band, more of a collar, really, around his throat was thick enough to keep him from tilting his chin down to look down his own frame.

 

He swallowed down on the rising panic, shuttering his optics and venting slowly and deeply.

 

This wasn’t the first time he’d been in this setup.

 

Vents shuddering, he tamped down violently on the memories threatening to rise up in the forefront of his processor, some of the earliest left in his memory banks. If he was where he thought he was, there would be plenty of horrors to come without revisiting ones from the past.

 

Twisting in his bindings proved futile, there wasn’t a single micrometer of give to be found in any of the clamps. That didn’t stop him from throwing himself against them, as if brute force would yield any different results. The fact of the matter was, these bindings had been designed to hold him, and him specifically. He didn’t have nearly enough mass to stress the points of connection enough to weaken or break them. But logic took a back seat to panic, and once he started, he couldn’t find it in himself to stop.

 

The unsteady _tap-thud-tap-thud_ of someone limping towards him registered in his audials and he froze, optics offlined and ventilations ragged.

 

The sound of the unknown bot’s limping grew closer, edging around him and stopping in front of him, but he couldn’t make himself online his optics. Oh how he wanted to, to prove to them that he wasn’t afraid of them. But it would be a lie, the fear all but choking him with its intensity, his very plating rattling against his protoform.

 

 _Tap-tap-tap-tap_.

 

“You have to look at me sometime, desert trash.” His optics onlined so fast he processed nothing but blobs of indistinct color for a moment, his visual centers racing to catch up with the sudden change in aperture settings. _That voice_!

 

Standing below him, staring up at him with a grin on his faceplates and his foot tap tap tapping against the floor, was Trepan. A shiny silver patch of unmarked plating marked where Whirl had put his claw through the mech’s chest, the paint surrounding it still bearing the stress marks from crumpled metal.

 

His opened his mouth, but his vocalizer fritzed, words escaping him. He’d seen the mech die, this couldn’t be possible! He had to still be offline, this was just a bad memory purge, that was all. Even as he repeated that to himself, he knew it was a lie. The best he could do was to clamp his plating down, but his venting was beyond his control; rapid and shallow, it was doing nothing for his quickly overheating systems.

 

“Welcome back, useless one.” Trepan snickered, then winced, rubbing at the bare metal absentmindedly. Rung flinched, he hadn’t heard that nickname since he’d been ‘released’ from the council’s tender mercies the last time around, and he’d hoped he’d never have had to hear it again. His spark throbbed in his chest, phantom pains racing up and down his limbs, radiating out from his core.

 

There was a ghost of a touch in his spark, Wing reaching out groggily to him over their still fresh link, but Rung shut his end of the bond down, blocking Wing out, hoping to save him from what was to come.

 

A tap on his thigh broke his concentration, and his optics snapped back to the other mech’s face.

 

“You and I are going to get to know one another…intimately…isn’t that _exciting?_ ” Trepan drug his finger down Rung’s plating as he spoke, the skrill of metal scraping on metal sharp and overly loud in Rung’s audials.

 

He swallowed the oral solvents that had pooled in the back of his intake, taking a deep invent and locking optics with the madmech beneath him.

 

“Where are Whirl and Wing?”

 

“The barbarian and the knight?” Trepan snickered again, covering his mouth with his servo and peering up at him with optics lit with a sadistic, sparkling-like glee. “That wild rotor’s no use to us anymore, as far as I know, he’s part of a sand dune by now. Your jet friend, on the other servo…” The finger tracing nonsense on his thigh plating suddenly dug in between two plates, scraping and scratching at cabling and protoform. “He’s going to prove very useful to us, I think.”

 

Rung squirmed, trying to move away from that suddenly sharp finger in his seam, to no avail. Wing was nudging at his end of the bond, still fuzzy and incomplete, but clearer and more panicked, more pain filled with every passing klik.

 

The needle tip of Trepan’s finger pierced a hydraulic, and with a _pop-hiss_ of pressure released, his leg went limp in the cradle of the restraints, fluid streaming down his leg, dripping off his pede-tip to puddle on the floor beneath him. Trepan withdrew his servo, flicking the drops of hydraulic fluid away with a look of bored disinterest.

 

“Please,” Rung finally found his voice again, trying to ignore the pain as everything below his hip joint went dead, the only sensations remaining the pain of the puncture and the uncomfortable loss of pressure as his line emptied and collapsed on itself. “Please, let him go. I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll submit to your testing without a fight, just, please. He has nothing to do with anything.”

 

“Without a fight?” Trepan pouted, reaching up and tapping the side of Rung’s face with those sharpened needle tips, “I’m _so_ looking forward to a fight, though. It’s no fun for me if you just lay back like a dead drone.”

 

As he spoke, he’d been inching those deadly sharp instruments around his jaw, and with a sharp piercing pain that whited out his optics, they drove through the tender mesh at the base of his jaw, up into his helm, and scraped over connectors before sinking in and locking with a _click_ that echoed through his processor.

Soon after, a warning popped up on his H.U.D., detailing the forced entry of a foreign presence.

 

Memory files began unpacking, playing out over his visual feed, and transmitting down the unwelcome connection for Trepan to review. In a matter of moments, he’d reviewed the earliest memories Rung had, making sure to allow the painful images of torture and vivisection and abandonment play out in full. Rung’s whole frame began to burn, imaginary aches as the tactile feedback tags locked into his core processing feed and replayed every sensation out for him in quick, over sensitized bursts. Months of torture, condensed into minutes.

 

By the time Trepan got to the point where Rung had woken up in Whirl’s tent, being force-fed a steady stream of thick, warm, fresh energon, he was hanging limply in the harness, panting, vents opened wide and fans screaming.

 

“Disgusting.” Trepan spat, reviewing all the relevant tags, and experiencing second hand the sensation of drinking energon fresh from a kill.

 

He fast forwarded through decades of data, shutting off Rung’s sensory input so he remained locked in the grip of the earlier pain, with none of the pleasant memory tags able to process and override.

 

The mnemosurgeon slowed down to examine the earliest memories of Ratchet, watching through Rung’s optics as he explained to the medic about his place in the tribe, congratulating him on his bonding with Drift.

 

“Rape,” Trepan laughed, reaching up with his free servo to grip Rung’s chin and force their optics to meet again, “These are the people you call your own? Rapists, kidnappers, _barbarians._ You would have been better off if you’d died.”

 

Rung bit his glossa, energon flooding his mouth.

 

He started up the playback again, speeding through raid after raid, only pausing whenever memories of his interactions with the sparklings came up.

 

One memory in particular gave Trepan pause, when Ratchet had asked him to stay with Airstrike. The jet’s mate had been away on a hunt, and Ratchet had assisted while he’d laid his eggs, twin seekerlings that had refused to uncurl from their protective casings. His disgust was palpable in his field, nausea rolling across the surface of disgust and disbelief.

 

“ _Primus below_ , that is _disgusting_.” He gagged, rushing through the rest of the memory as quickly as possible, “Thank the creator the council did away with _that_ particular act of barbarianism.”

 

And then they were up to his most recent memory files. Playback slowed down as Rung laid optics on Wing for the first time, as he transported him back to the camp. Trepan rolled his optics at Rung’s small breakdown with Ratchet, and he made a much more theatrical gagging sound when Rung told Wing his history.

 

Fast forward through the first encounter with Trepan, the other mech wincing and shuddering as he watched himself be stabbed through the chest in the blink of an optic, then he was slowing down to real-time playback as Wing and Rung fell into each other’s arms, sharing their passion and bonding on Wing’s old berth.

 

The memory file paused on Wing’s ecstatic expression at the moment of overload, and Rung wanted to purge on the surgeon, feeling the faint, barely there thrum of arousal in the other’s field. How dare he get _anything_ out of that private, precious moment. He seethed and snarled at the mech below him, but Trepan just swatted him across the nose, optics dim as he inspected the file for any forgeries or alterations.

 

“Interesting…” He muttered, free servo stroking the sting away from Rung’s face as he failed to find any evidence of tampering beyond his own. “We didn’t figure you barbarians made connections this deep… I suppose you _may_ be a special case, being from the city originally…but you have no memories of your time before us, I made sure of that personally…This was learned out there…” He continued to mutter to himself as he made notations on a copy of the memory that he moved to a partition on his own memory core for later inspection.

 

He sped through the last few hours of memory in a rush, and Rung couldn’t help the sigh of relief he felt as the last of his memories played out. At least that was over. He tried to not think too hard about what could come next.

 

“Oh well, I suppose you have every right to review the knight’s treatment plan so far, rights of the conjunx and all that.” Trepan laughed, and as suddenly as everything had gone still, memories were surging into his core through their connection, playing out on his H.U.D. at near real time speed.

 

He watched as Wing was wheeled in, strapped to a medical berth, unconscious and still smoking slightly. This couldn’t have happened long after they were attacked, and he had to wonder how they’d transported them to an institute facility so fast. Assuming that this _was_ an institute facility, he couldn’t be sure of course.

 

He reached down with Trepan’s servo, connecting a jumper kit that jolted Wing’s frame up off the table, flight engines spluttering to life with a groan. His optics flared with excess charge, mouth open on a silent scream, as he came online all at once.

 

“Welcome back, Knight Wing.” He said with Trepan’s voice, reaching down and playing his fingers out over Wing’s frame, drawing little crackling arcs of electricity up out of his plating to snap at his servo.

 

Wing said nothing, fans rattling and wheezing, mouth pressed into a thin line as he focused on the ceiling, ignoring Trepan’s teasing touch.

 

Rung found himself begging, pleading with Wing to please, say something, anything, as Trepan questioned him. Each question was met with silence, the knight shutting off his vocalizer with an audible, extremely rude _click_ after a particularly invasive question regarding his time with Rung.

 

Eventually, the Trepan in the memory file grew tired of questioning what was essentially a plassteel wall. He snapped his fingers, and two nurses, different from the ones that had been present when they’d rescued Redline, scuttled into view, wheeling an I.V. Machine between them. Only this was no simple pump clamped to a pole. The frame arched up and angled over Wing’s berth, a tank of sloshing fluids hanging from the arm.

 

Trepan checked his restraints, and, satisfied, reached up and opened a small valve a single rotation.

 

The first few drops of the clear fluid garnered no response as they dripped down over Wing’s face, sliding down his cheek to pool in a divot of his collar. Soon enough, though, he flinched, then shuttered his optics, face pinching in pain as the enamel on his plating started to bubble and crack.

 

At Trepan’s signal, one of the nurses fiddled with a control panel at berth height, angled away from the jet, just out of reach. The machine hummed, and then slowly inched down till the drips were falling on his cockpit, sliding down the glass to either side to eat at the metal lip connecting the thin, clear shell to his chest plates.

 

His tank churned, energon rising in the back of his intake, as his mate twitched, servos clenching into fists. The machine shifted every so often, randomly adjusting so the corrosive never hit the same plating for more than a few kliks. Wing would never be able to shut it out, so long as it kept changing, kept startling him with new, fresh patches of pain.

 

Trepan yanked his needles free with little care for Rung’s comfort, stepping back just in time to avoid the splatter of half processed fuel as Rung’s tank won over his will. The surgeon looked down at the puddle of fuel, and the chunks of meat that had come up with it, and curled his lip.

 

“Disgusting.” He repeated, snapping his fingers. Nurses, the same ones from that memory file, came into view. One went to work cleaning the mess on the floor, their faceplates twisted up in disgust as they removed the evidence of Rung’s purge. The other adjusted his harness at the control panel, lowering him till his pedes scraped the ground, and then tilting him till he was reclining, optics on the light panel above his helm.

 

A machine like the one they’d set up with Wing was rolled into view, and he braced for the corrosive burn as Trepan made a show of checking his restraints and patting his cheek in mock sympathy.

 

“A mix of highly concentrated bleach, mixed with a mild acid. Enough to cut through your protective enameling, not enough to eat away at your plating. The bleach will take care of that, but far slower and more painfully.” He explained as he reached up and opened the flow valve. His other servo came into view, plucking at his goggles, ripping them free of their mobile attachment points and setting them out of sight on a cart with a clatter.

 

Wing’s presence in his spark was still numb and unclear, but Rung could tell the other mech was hurting, possibly, probably, still under the twin to the machine over his own helm. It reached out, pressing against the weak block he’d hastily erected, and Rung dropped it. He didn’t have long, so he made the most of the few kliks he had, wrapping Wing’s vague spark signature in a comforting blanket of _love/reassurance/hope_. He responded with _confused/hurt/love/trust_ , and Rung’s spark nearly broke at the blind faith he could feel in the other mech.

 

It wasn’t long before he felt his enamel crack and shift, and then the acidic bite of the mixture was touching bare metal, and he bit down on his glossa till he feared he’d chew it in half. One last pulse of _love/trust/patience/faith/courage_ over the bond, and he put up a stronger blockade, shutting it down to a weak trickle of sensations, hopefully sparing Wing the torment to come.

 

The hum of the machine was his only warning, unable to shift and look at the control panel with the way he was held tight. It shifted, a line of burning droplets landing on his chin, neck, chest, then it stopped just below his spark glass, landing on his abdomen.

 

Trepan patted his helm, stroking his crest and smoothing his antenna back in a parody of comfort.

 

“We’ll leave you to your treatment, oh useless one.” He cooed, leaning down to whisper in his audial, “I have another appointment with your conjunx, and I would hate to keep him waiting.”

 

Rung screamed then, a feral, wild thing that clawed its way out of his vocalizer as he struggled up against his restraints, snapping his teeth at Trepan’s retreating servo.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back.” The surgeon called out as he disappeared from Rung’s line of sight. The _tap-thud-tap-thud_ of his uneven gait got softer and softer, then faded out all together, and Rung was left with only the machine over-helm for company.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really a very much Not. Good. Feels. Chapter. Torture ahead. Read at your own risk. (One more chapter of this kinda stuff and then things start getting better, slowly but surely. Promise!)

It could have been hours, it could have been days, Rung had no idea anymore. Trepan had shut down his chronometer at some point in the endless cycle of _drip-drip-drips,_ and his entire world had narrowed down to the steady, burning sting of the bleach solution on his plating. He knew it couldn’t have been _too_ long, he still had more panelling than corrosion, but it was a small comfort as his abdominal plating twitched and tightened against the sting of the fluids slowly pitting and discoloring his armor. A few places had thinned and cracked through, and so he ached down to his very protoform, where bleach settled on struts and stung and burned in a way that radiated from his helm to the tips of his pedes.

 

He’d heard the _tap-thud-tap-thud_ of Trepan’s uneven gait a few times, but the mech had never come into his line of sight, never said a word to him. Very quickly, he’d found himself slipping back into the same mindset from his last stay here. Why did they want to hurt him? That was the question forefront on his processor, and one he had no answer to. Why did his lack of a ‘useful’ alt-mode warrant this treatment? If Primus made them, then Primus had a reason for his alt-mode, surely. But he remembered the empty rhetoric from last time, how his alt-mode was useless, an affront to their culture, a stepping stone on the path to anarchy and formlessness.

 

Most likely, he would have slipped back into that numb, voiceless blank that had been his only armor against the pain last time, had it not been for Wing. The jet periodically prodded at the block Rung had put up, trying to push through. Even numbed as the bond was, he could tell the other mech was in pain, and he pressed back, eeking reassurance through the bond without fully removing the block and flooding Wing with his pain and vice versa. The last thing they needed was a never-ending loop of feedback like that.

 

Finally, after an indeterminate length of time, the _tap-thud-tap-thud_ of Trepan’s distinctive gait could be heard again, accompanied by a steadier set of pedes. Rung stiffened, pulling back from Wing and restrengthening the block. For the first time since it had begun, Trepan didn’t stand behind him and observe. Slowly, he limped into view, standing near his shoulder and looking down at him with a blank expression on his face.

 

Rung opened his mouth to speak, and his vocalizer spit static, painful feedback burning his intake.

 

He’d expected Trepan to gloat, to mock him, but he said nothing. Instead, he shut off the drip of the machine. Rung let himself slump down in relief, relaxing tensors and joints he hadn’t realized had been so tight until then. The relief didn’t last long, as Trepan and his companion, the other surgeon from Redline’s rescue, went about adjusting his harness. He was positioned to face the floor, and then Trepan knelt down beneath his frame, looking up at him with that same disconnected expression.

 

So focused was he on the surgeon beneath him, that the drip of the acid/bleach mix on his spinal strut shocked a shriek from his protesting vocalizer. A spray of sparks rained down on Trepan’s face, and his mouth quirked up in a grin now.

 

He reached up, careful to hunker down well out of the way of any stray droplets of the chemical, and plugged into Rung’s data port again. Once more, he found himself struggling ineffectually against the unwanted upload of files as the playback opened up on his H.U.D. and filled his vision with the image of Wing.

 

“Please-“ Rung croaked, shuttering his optics as if it would stop the file from playing.

 

 _“Let’s see how your reflexes fair. You’re a courier model, yet your file states a warrior’s proficiency. Very unusual…”_ Trepan’s voice said in the memory, and one needle-less servo reached into his line of sight with an plate spreader. The tool was wedged point first into the gap between two bleach discolored plates at his hip and twisted. The mouth of the tool spread, prying armor plates back in a painful screech of bending metal, exposing the raw protoform and stained struts beneath. One plate cracked, crumbling under the stress after having been eaten away at by the chemicals for so long, and Wing whined, twisting his helm away and biting his lip.

 

“No no no no no no no…” Rung heard someone chanting, and then realized it was him, repeating the word over and over and over again in a plea to stop what had already happened.

 

Fingers reached into the new gap, stroking, tapping, pinching at bruised metal and corroded wires, firing up the sensors in the little filament strands of nerve connectors that attached to the backside of each piece of armor. They clung to the surgeon’s fingers, attempting to reconnect with lost armor, and Trepan waited until he had a good handful of the tiny monofilaments before ripping his hand back, breaking the connections and watching as Wing twisted and squirmed in his bindings.

 

The knight’s optics were shut, his mouth pressed into a grim, straight line, determined to not make a sound. That was a challenge Trepan was willing to take, as he pressed into an electro-shock stick, much like the ones that had been used on them when they were ambushed and captured out in the desert. The glowing end of the rod was pressed to a stained section of strut, and Wing’s right leg jerked in its straps. A little bit more of the broken plate crumbled away into the cavity of his hip joint, and electricity snapped and danced over his plating in little arcs of blue and white, bubbling up sections of weakened enamel and leaving little jagged lines of burnt black under the protective clear coat.

 

“You weren’t very fond of this particular test, as I recall.” It took Rung a long moment to realize that this was Trepan speaking to _him,_ not the Trepan of the memory taunting Wing as he continued to poke and prod with the shock-stick, nudging aside bundles of cabling with the rod to get at deeper sensors.

 

He felt servos on his plating, unable to see them for the forced visual feed on his H.U.D., but his plating crawled as he felt something, a spreader probably, wedge between his plating on the back of his thigh, up high near his hip joint, and twist. Sure enough, he felt his own plating give, bending back under the insistent pressure, an aching throb as the nerve strands were ripped clean from the back of the plate and exposed to the air, thick with the fumes of the bleach and acid.

 

As if cued on by the video, a shock-stick pressed into the gap of his plating, contacting directly with those stinging nerve strands, while in the memory file, Trepan did the same to Wing, letting the little strands connect to the side of the prod before twisting it down to press the glowing bulb of the charge end into the mass of strands. Rung’s sensor net lit up in agony as the charge danced over his nerve endings and burnt more than a few of them out. Wing in the memory arched up off the berth as far as his bonds would allow, and his vocalizer clicked repeatedly, an audible sign that the knight had shut it off to mute himself.

 

“How in the name of Primus did you survive?” He dimly heard Trepan mutter, and fingers curled around his chin, pulling his helm up from where it hung between his shoulders, the arms of the harness that secured those bindings having been left loose when he was rolled over. He couldn’t see through the playback to be sure Trepan was looking him in the optics, but he scowled none the less, glaring blindly at whatever was in front of him.

 

Cutting through the haze of pain, Wing’s tentative brush against his blockade was a bit of cool to counteract the burn of the prod, and he had half a processor to remove the block and bury himself in that loving sensation.

 

Another prod to Wing’s delicate internals, and an accompanying jab to his own frame, and Rung lost control of his facial expressions, feeling his face twist up in a grimace as he swallowed down a scream and trembled in the aftershocks running up and down his limbs. The pain reminded him of where he was, and his determination to leave Wing out of it strengthened. Worry seeped through the cracks though, worry, and love, and a numb sort of distance that had Rung worried. Well… _more_ worried.

 

He lost count of the number of shocks his abused, overheated systems received, each one timed to follow directly on the heels of one given to Wing in the memory file. When the file finally played itself out, leaving his H.U.D. clear and letting him see Trepan beneath him once again, the after image of Wing smoking and twitching with lingering external charge was burned into his mind’s optic.

 

“Please-“ He started, licking his lips and swallowing to try and sooth the electrical burn in the back of his intake, “Please…let Wing go, and I’ll tell you.”

 

“Tell me what?” Trepan asked, tilting his helm to the side and giving him a quizzical look.

 

“H-how I survi-vi-vived.” His vocalizer was glitching, it seems it sustained a bit of damage from the amount of electricity his internals were subjected to, and he reset it a few times, hoping to clear the bad coding, to no avail.

 

Trepan studied him for a moment, watching as he struggled with his vocalizer short and taking in the way his fingers and pedes twitched every so often with the last little bits of electricity fizzling out.

 

Finally, he shook his helm, removing the needles on his occupied servo from Rung’s ports and flicking them, as if he could disperse the little bits of blue light that crackled across the slender shafts in that way.

 

“As much as I’d like to hear your rendition, I can’t do that. Council’s orders…” Rung’s optics widened, and he shook his helm mutely, “You see, he’s displayed far too many aberrations to be released as is. He’s a danger to the public.”

 

Suddenly, that calm, cool presence in his spark went dark, and he shrieked, throwing himself against his bonds and snapping his dentae at Trepan, nearly catching one of the short, immobile antenna on his audials.

 

Trepan fell back on his servos, glaring up at him.

 

“Oh, do behave,” He snapped, accepting his partner’s servo in climbing to his pedes. “He won’t be offlined, he’s actually a bit _useful_ , unlike you. But we’ll correct that bad coding in his processor, and he’ll be good as new. Better, even. He’ll be the perfect citizen.”

 

More footsteps, and multiple pedes came into his limited line of sight. Servos worked at the straps around his limp limbs, and a gurney was wheeled under his frame as he was dropped down and flipped over to lay on the freshly burned plating of his back. The nurses were quick with their work, strapping him down before he could find the commands to move through the fresh haze of pain that flared up when his back came in contact with the cold metal of the transport berth.

 

Trepan leaned over him, accepting a black cube from one of the nurses, and pressed the fingers of his free servo to the corner of Rung’s mouth. Despite his best efforts, his jaw was forced open after a brief struggle, and the block was pressed into the back of his intake with quick, sharp movements that dug into the tender mesh of his mouth. He could taste energon pooling on the back of his glossa as he gagged around the device pushed down further and further until it was lodged in his intake, stretching it wide and digging in at the corners.

 

He coughed, then retched, trying to unseat the painful little hunk of metal with no luck.

 

“A vocal block,” Trepan explained, when Rung tried to say something, and not even static, or the click of a hard reset was emitted from his vocalizer, “There are less…’cruel’ methods, ones that have been put in place in hospitals and clinics in most cities, but since somebody decided to break into our well stocked clinic and compromise our security, we’ve been forced to work in old, less up-to-date settings.”

 

Rung continued to try and force the block up, energon filling his mouth and dripping down the sides of his face as he accomplished nothing but further damage to his intake. While he did this, he was being wheeled through a brightly lit hallway, with Trepan sitting delicately on the edge of the gurney.

 

“Wouldn’t want to slow down the procedure with my limp, would we?” He asked by way of explanation when Rung glared at him and tried to claw at him. He was so damn close to his servo, but still just out of reach!

 

When they pushed through the double doors into an operating room, Trepan hopped off, limping away while the nurses hooked him up to an identical harness. One forced an aspiration straw between his lips, sucking up the energon that had filled his mouth, and taped it in place. He’d stopped trying by this point, and the cuts were already starting to clot, but still the sound of suction was loud in the otherwise quiet of the room.

 

When he was secured to their liking, one of the nurses went over to the control panel, and he was lifted up, out of the way, above an empty operating slab. Trepan was busy making sure the tools on a tray next to the berth were in proper order, but when the whir and whine of the harness’ gears stopped, he looked up and flashed a put upon smile.

 

“Welcome to my domain!” He chirped, and how could a mech sound so happy and so hollow at the same time? Rung’s processor was spinning with all the sudden changes, still aching from the rough treatment and so very confused.

 

The doors swung open again; he couldn’t see them, but he could hear them hitting the walls and then swinging back into place behind whoever had entered.

 

Rung’s optics widened once more as a bundle of discolored, burnt white and red plating was rolled up next to the operating slab on a gurney.

 

“Looks like you’ve got a front row seat for all the fun we’re going to have today!”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Memory of rape in this chapter, when you hit the ***, go to the second set of *** if you'd like to skip.
> 
> I SWEAR IT SORT OF KIND OF STARTS TO GET A LITTLE BIT BETTER AFTER THIS I SWEEEEEAAAAAR!!!!

Rung’s vocalizer stung and burned as he tried desperately to make a sound, any sound, when they wheeled in the gurney. The frame holding him in place was solid, without so much as a micrometer of give to it as he struggled to fight his way free.

 

On the gurney between the two ‘nurses’ was Wing, strapped down at his arms, legs, waist, and chest. One servo was crushed, the fingers twitching at odd angles, unable to close into a proper fist. His cheek flares were scratched and crumpled, the left outer most flare bent at the tip and hanging from one sparking hinging mechanism. He thrashed in his bonds, rocking the gurney and making the two nurses struggle to keep control.

 

Large black gaps where his optics had been stared blindly up at Rung. His vocalizer clicked again, felt but not heard, trying to force a reboot around the silencer they’d so kindly forced down his intake. Even if it had made a sound, it wouldn’t have been enough to draw his mate's attention over the clatter of Wing’s plating against the metal under his back, and the shouts of the two nurses as they tried to restrain him.

 

 _Wing!_ He was quick to drop the block on their bond, trying to catch the other mech’s attention that way, but he was quickly overwhelmed by the blind panic, his mental voice lost in the cacophony of Wing’s distress. There was no acknowledgment to his mental prodding. He twisted his wrist, working desperately, frantically, to break the hold, break his wrist, something. _Anything_.

 

After learning what the Institute, and this mech in particular, had done to Whirl, he didn’t want to give them a chance to lay a finger on his mate in a surgical setting.

 

Trepan scowled at the entire mess, his partner standing right behind him like an off colored shadow with a cheshire grin.

 

The wounded mech ran one servo none too gently over Wing’s side. Rung was impressed at how still he suddenly went. Over their bond, he was flinching away from the touch, the panic starting to give way to a cold sparked fear.

 

“You’ve given my nurses quite the trouble, knight. But no worries. Soon enough, we’ll have you fixed up and thinking clearly.” Fingers tapped a line up Wing’s cockpit glass, stroking flexing throat cables and digging into the dark space beneath his jaw. Wing choked at the sudden pressure to the tender spot, saliva bubbling up over his lips and running down the sides of his face to pool beneath his helm. The fingers twisted, and Wing wrenched his helm away, still silent.

 

Rung threw himself forward, heaving against the frame, shouting without sound at the monster that had mutilated Whirl. For the first time in a very, very long time, he found himself hating someone. Trepan, in particular. And not just hate, but a rage that burned in his spark. If he stopped to inspect it, he was sure he would fear it, and what it made him want to do to the mechs touching his Wing.

 

The self inspection could wait for later.

 

Trepan wasted no time in starting, accepting tools from his nurses and popping loose the plating that hid his brain module access hatch with an unkind, overly harsh flick of his wrist. He leaned forward, whispering something into Wing’s audial that Rung couldn’t make out, but had the desired effect on Wing.

 

He still didn’t make a sound, resolute in his silence, but his face had twisted into a look of horror that was out of place on the normally sunny mech. Trepan wasted no time in cutting relays, removing the motor control lines from the brain module to the face plates, and Wing’s face froze in a grimace, audial flares going slack and drooping back against the berth.

 

A few more pulled connections, and he turned to face Rung while the nurses began removing the plating that connected his throat and jaw. His assistant was working on the broken servo, ignoring them all. Rung felt certain the doctor wasn’t planning to repair it.

 

“Oh, not to worry. He’s not offline. His audial and motor relays were just cut. He can’t hear us or see us, but we were kind enough to at least leave his tactile feedback online, so he can feel what we’re doing. I think that was extremely kind of us, don’t you?”

 

 _Tszzzhcht_! Every failed reboot burned his vocalizer, but he shouted again despite it, feeling his wrist strut grinding against plating and cracking.

 

“Careful, barbarian. Wouldn’t want to hurt yourself, would you? The council was so _kind_ to reroute your punishment to another, it would be ungrateful to waste their gift.” The glint of dentae in that smile made Rung’s tank churn. A look past the multi lensed mech’s shoulder nearly finished the job, energon rising in a burning rush up the back of his intake. The nurses were removing his helm, one holding the lifeless shell of a face up high, exposing wires that the other nurse either snipped or pulled free, laying the still functioning brain module on a sheet of anti-static wrap above the stump of an intake.

 

Trepan’s assistant had been busy, silent and studious as Trepan gloated. Wing’s crushed servo had been removed, and replaced with a rudimentary claw.

 

Rung had felt it the instant the knight had fallen offline, the way the still fresh bond went numb in the way that differentiated between ‘recharge’ offline and ‘emergency shut down’ offline.

 

“He’s a quiet one, we’ll give him that.” Trepan mused, running a finger down the still flexing tubing of Wing’s intake, smearing energon in abstract swirls. “Didn’t even make a sound during your favorite treatment. Want to see?”

 

Rung tried to flinch away from that servo, probing needles poised to pierce. _Oh_ how he tried, but Trepan made the connection anyway, having a nurse lower his frame down to put his helm in reach and jacking in without further adieu.

 

He’d hoped, _prayed_ even, that it wasn’t what he feared it was going to be. But when the image flickered to life on his H.U.D., his fuel pump stalled, and his spark skipped a beat.

*** 

Wing lay stretched out and bound on an exam table, an external charge inducer hooked up to his frame. Energon dribbled down his chin from where he’d chewed near clean through his bottom lip, and one servo clenched into a fist tight enough to puncture his palm. The other was already crushed, sparking and twitching weakly.

 

The machine Rung still saw in his nightmares sometimes was poised between Wing’s spread thighs, pistoning into his valve through a mess of lubricants and energon. The secondary sleeve was wrapped tightly around his spike, and he twisted and tried to pull away as an overload ripped through his systems, followed by the hiss of the charge inducer flaring to life, mistiming his overload and setting it to stutter through off sequence.

 

He begged, voiceless, wordless, but still he begged Trepan to stop. To stop hurting Wing, to stop showing him this thing that had already happened that he’d been powerless to stop. To just _please_ leave them be. All he’d wanted was to be happy with his mate, out in the desert, away from all this. He’d never done _anything_ to hurt _anybot_. Please, just please please _please_ let them go, don’t hurt him, he didn’t deserve this, _Rung_ didn’t deserve this, please! They’d never come back to the city, they’d never bother the council again, just please let them go!

 

Solvent tracked down his cheeks as he mouthed soundless words to Trepan, blind to all but the pain on his mate’s face as he was pulled through another overload, and another. Each time, the inducer sparked to life, pushing his charge settings just a little further off course. All the while, Wing had remained silent, chewing on the mangled remains of his lip, then his glossa. Clicks could be heard over the whirr and hum of the machines, his vocalizer glitching and resetting.

***

“Don’t worry,” Trepan’s voice pierced the fog in his processor, free servo swiping at the tears on his faceplate, “His alt mode is useful. We’ll patch him up after we finish pulling him apart.”

 

The needles were pulled from his ports with a ridiculous amount of care, the tips, still burning hot from the connection, trailing along his jaw before Trepan stepped back.

 

“Unlike you, he has a purpose.”

 

Rung opened his mouth in a soundless shriek, flailing in his bonds and hissing, spitting at the mech, snapping his dentae like a wild thing.

 

Trepan didn’t respond. In fact, if Rung didn’t know better, he’d have thought the mech had locked up, stock still, expression flitting from fear to a blank calm in the blink of an optic.

 

When he opened his mouth this time, the voice that came out was flat, and echoed horribly, as if multiple mechs were speaking in unison.

 

“The council would like to take this opportunity to remind Rung of the desert tribes that the fate of this flight frame is directly linked to his involvement with the undesirable.”

 

A pause, as Trepan’s helm rotated slowly to the side, to take in the sight of Wing on the table, the other surgeon studiously working away installing the exposed brain module into a single optiked, featureless helm.

 

“The council would also like to extend its gratitude to Trepan and Lobe of the Institute, for their continued dedication to the cause.”

 

The surgeon, Lobe, nodded graciously, but said nothing, and kept his helm down as he worked quickly and efficiently.

 

As quickly as it had happened, the eerie remote presence of the council was gone, and Trepan slumped forward a little, fans kicking in as he swallowed audibly and raised a shaking servo to his face.

 

He stood slowly, smiling up at Rung, and stepped back around to Wing’s new helm.

 

“I suppose that’s my cue to get started.” He said, and now Rung could hear the nerves in his voice as he went to work undoing the hatch to access Wing’s brain module.

 

While he accepted tools from the nurses to make room for his servo in the small space, Rung worked frantically, twisting and turning his wrist in it’s binding, until, with a wet snapping sound, his thumb broke, and dangled from a sparking pair of wires.

 

He wrenched the throbbing appendage free of the band holding it down, stretching as far as he could and wrapping half numb fingers around an audial to give a good, solid yank. It served its purpose, pulling the sadistic glitch across Wing’s new helm, close enough for him to sink his dentae into the side of his face while graceless digits dug and clawed at the many lens arrays on his helm.

 

Trepan howled, smashing an open palm into the underside of his jaw and digging in with clawed fingers. A perfectly matching pair of oozing crescent dents were the fruit of his efforts, worth the jab of needle tips into the corner of his optical socket.

 

“Big mistake.” Trepan hissed, needle probes sliding down to hover threateningly over his data access ports.

 

A rumble started, on the far side of the room, just a low vibration at first, but Trepan turned his helm at the noise. Rung took the momentary lapse in observation to claw at the harness holding him up.

 

Then the wall caved in without much of a sound, the metal crumpling and caving in on itself, smoke rising out of the hole and cloaking the figures that were climbing through.

 

“Sound the alarm!” Trepan shouted, running back around to finish his work on Wing while Lobe ran for the door and the nurses scrambled.

 

Someone was at his side, and he swung his servo around before he registered more than the mech’s presence. His knuckles bounced off blue shoulder plating, and a single optic curved up in a grin while the harness was sliced through.

 

“Miss me, Eyebrows?”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than most chapters, but I felt it was the best place to cut off. 
> 
> Go check out this awesome picture Oni-gil did [here](http://full-autopsy.tumblr.com/post/127457491172/the-sparkbeat-this-is-as-good-as-its-gonna-get) if you wanna see empurata!Wing, because this is just perfectly perfect and so freakin relevant. Just...be prepared to be sad.
> 
> Hopefully the end of this chapter makes up a bit for the slag I've put you guys through the last couple chapters? :)

The smoke had started to clear while Whirl was breaking the connections to the harness, and Rung could see Drift herding the terrified nurses into a corner, both short blades drawn and held ready. Ratchet had his blaster trained on Trepan, easing forward slowly as the surgeon held his needles just shy of the gaping black hole giving him access to Wing’s mind.

 

“Easy, Eyebrows, Whirl’s gotcha.” Whirl warned him as he severed the last binding around his hips, and he fell forward to drape over the copter’s shoulder.

 

“Back away.” Trepan said, but his voice wavered, fear obvious in his optics as his fingers twitched over Wing’s helm. “Step back, and set your weapon down on the floor, or this knight will be lucky to come out of here comatose!”

 

Ratchet backed away, servos raised as he let his blaster drop. Trepan waved at it irritably, and Ratchet kicked it away with one pede, sending it spinning away under a table to the side. Whirl’s stabilizing wing blades twitched, and Rung could feel, sort of, the way his guns spun up against his numb, dead leg.

 

“Ah-ah…set him down there on the berth, and back away.” Trepan turned to glare at Whirl, fingers inching closer.

 

Whirl tensed, guns whining audibly now as they primed to fire. Rung shook his helm, smacking Whirl’s back plating to get his attention and pointing to the berth. Whirl hesitated, the arm he had wrapped around Rung’s thighs tightening minutely. He pointed more firmly at the berth, glaring at the rotor for even thinking to hesitate when his mate’s life and mind were on the line.

 

Finally, he was set down next to Wing, and he leaned down to press his cheek to the cockpit glass, one servo pressing up against warm metal, trying to feel the thrum of that precious spark.

 

“Good, good…” Trepan sighed, motioning for Whirl to step back, “See? We can all be civilized if we just try!”

 

Rung’s fingers closed around a scalpel left by one of the nurses, and he was up in a crouch, pushing off with his good leg before Trepan had finished speaking. He caught him square in the chest, and he stumbled back, caught off guard. They hit the ground hard, and before he had time to react, Rung was driving the small blade through his shoulder, servo on the butt end of the handle to push it through till the tip of the blade scraped the floor.

 

Trepan’s screams were oddly therapeutic, even as the flailing mech knocked him off his perch on his chest. He landed on his injured leg, and it collapsed under him, sending him sprawling to the floor. Whirl was at his side in the blink of an optic, while Ratchet raced past them to the operating table and Wing’s still frame.

 

Accepting Whirl’s offered servo up, he leaned heavily against the rotor and glared down at the whining mech. Shaking servos were hovering over the scalpel, wide glossy optics flicking between the shaft sticking up out of his shoulder, and the nomads standing over him. They widened considerably when Whirl handed Rung his spear from where it had been magnetized to his thigh plate.

 

Rung swung the small metal tube to the side, safety and comfort in the sound of the clicking segments as it telescoped open. He held the pointed end to Trepan’s throat cables, staring at him, considering. He could easily kill him, defenseless, stunned from pain as he was. It would be an easy thing to throw his weight behind the weapon in his hand, drive it through his still spinning spark, watch the light going out of his optics as the chamber crunched and the spark inside burnt out with a little pop and the smell of ozone.

 

Nobody could blame him. Not after what he’d done to him, to _Wing._

 

Trepan stared up at him, all the arrogance, the conceit and contempt gone from his face. All that was left was fear, basic and animalistic. His vents wheezed and rattled, his armor shivered, clamping down too tightly to his frame.

 

He swung his spear to the side, and turned away. Behind him, he could hear Trepan’s relieved venting, and felt sick to his tank.

 

Ratchet was working fast, servos a blur as he reconnected things inside Wing’s cylindrical helm.

 

“Drift, watch my back!” He barked, waving Rung away as he limped close, dragging his weak leg behind him. Drift snarled at the nurses one last time, motioning for them to sit still and stay put, and came over to watch over Ratchet’s shoulder as he worked.

 

“When I said watch my back, I didn’t literally mean to stare at my fragging _back_ , Drift!” Ratchet snapped, elbowing his mate and forcing him to take a few steps back. He connected something inside Wing’s helm with a solid _click_ , and Wing shot straight up on the berth, the audial flares so similar to his originals clamping down flat against the sides of the round, tubular helm. His single optic flared wide and bright, and he turned to face Rung, his EM field reaching out tentatively to brush his own.

 

Rung bit his lip, cleanser pooling in his optics as he studied the mass of scratches and dents and dings the other mech’s frame sported, and the alien head on his shoulders. The field that connected with his, and the reawakened presence in his spark though, they reassured him that this was Wing, no matter how terrifyingly unfamiliar he’d become. He pushed the pain, the hurt, the fear, all the negativity aside and focused on pumping love and concern and care into his field as he pressed it up tight against Wing’s. The audial flares unfolded a bit, and the single optic curved down, body slumping and nacelles drooping. The clawed servo reached out for him and dropped into his lap when he saw it for the first time, optic going wide again.

 

Ratchet sighed, cutting the rest of Wing’s bindings and slinging the surprised mech over his shoulder. A tap to his medical access panel, and he was out, sent into a medical stasis.

 

“Rung, grab his helm and let’s get out of here!”

 

Rung turned to look at the mangled mess of a helm staring at him from the little table, empty optical sockets accusing. His whole frame trembled as he reached out to take it, and he hesitated, swallowing down the small bit of energon left in his pinched tank when it tried to rise up in intake.

 

“ _Rung!_ Let’s **_go_**!” Ratchet snapped, already at the still smoking hole in the wall. Drift stood just on the other side, looking back at him in concern.

 

_Brrrzzt! Brrzzzt! Brrrzzzt!_

An alarm sounded, red emergency lights flashing, casting sinister shadows over Wing’s slack face.

 

“They’ll be here any minute.” Trepan laughed from the floor, bravado back now that Rung had spared him. “You’ll be right back where you sta- _ack_!” His gloating was cut off by the sound of a pede tapping against metal, presumably his chest plating.

 

“C’mon eyebrows! Grab it and run!” Whirl shouted over the din of the alarm.

 

Rung’s servos shook as he finally convinced himself to grab hold of the lifeless helm, tucking the anti-static sheet around it carefully and pressing it to his spark glass as much to avoid looking in its dead optics as to carry it.

 

He turned to Whirl just in time to see him lean down over Trepan, one pede planted firmly over the smaller mech’s spark chamber.

 

“Stay dead.” Whirl snarled, and Trepan’s scream was cut short as his chest caved in under Whirl’s full weight, and his spark chamber popped open, spark guttering and burning out with a little _puff-pop_.

 

“Flimsy city mech plating,” Whirl snorted, grinding his pede down into the remains of the spark chamber for good measure, “Least shiny and friends got good armor.”

 

He turned to Rung, his field drawn in tight and his frame tense, but he still managed his version of a smile as he stalked by, snatching Rung up under one arm and carrying him along.

 

He wiggled and squirmed, silently protesting before picked up and carried along like a sparkling, clinging tight to Wing’s helm, terrified of dropping it as much as he was of holding it.

 

“Limping, no mobile alt, slow down all.” Whirl shrugged, hiking Rung up a little higher as he stepped out the hole and into the blinding sun light.

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah, [the Falls](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/124728107018/fhclynn-the-sparkbeat)...this picture right here is the whole reason that this story didn't end after Rung and Wing finally 'faced. _THIS_ is the reason for all the torture and pain that they've been through, and will still go through. 
> 
> Fair warning, there's not going to be any more physical torture (in the near future anyway...isn't completely plotted out yet, so who knows what the future holds?) but there will be lots of mental anguish and tears and feels and stuff, because Empurata!Wing... 
> 
> BUT just in case you need proof that things _will_ get better for these two, [this NSFW drabble](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/120227023668/so-ive-got-zero-non-angsty-words-for-this-story) I posted on Tumblr forever ago happens after all of this stuff, like 20 some chapters in the future of the storyline... :)

Whirl didn’t put him down for a very long time as they ducked and dodged, shouts and blaster fire hot on their heels as they made their escape. Drift disappeared at one point, melting into the shadows of a building. Shrieks and clatters followed.

 

When Drift caught back up with them, it was silent, and he was covered in energon, with a grim smile on his face.

 

Trepan had mentioned they weren’t in their ‘normal’ building when he’d been taunting Rung, and he hadn’t been lying. The building they’d escaped from had been much closer to the city wall, and it wasn’t long at all before they were racing through a small drainage tunnel, only _just_ large enough for someone of Ratchet’s build. Drift had gone through first, not slowing down at all as he’d hit the ground and slid through the tight fitting escape on his back, scraping finials and shoulder pauldrons alike, setting off a spray of sparks and leaving behind long lines of paint transfer on the ground.

 

Ratchet wasn’t happy at all about that, snapping at Drift as he lowered himself down backwards and crawled through, dragging Wing’s still frame with him.

 

Whirl took one look at the tunnel, stabilizing wings flicking irritably, and shook his helm. Rung didn’t have time to brace himself as the rotor crouched down and used the powerful pistons in those oddly jointed legs to launch himself up into the air, rotors flaring to help him hang for just a split second while Rung tried desperately to not loose what little sustenance remained in his tank. With Rung under one arm, Whirl was off balance, and unable to take full advantage of his flight capabilities, but that didn’t stop him in the least. Slamming his claw into the side of the wall, he kicked up again, launching himself up, and again. Once more put him on top of the wall, and he tucked Rung in tight to his side before stepping off the other side.

 

They hit the ground with little sound, just a big puff of displaced sand, and Rung’s quiet whimper as he waited for his tank and fuel pump to join them on the ground.

 

Rung whimpered, clapping both servos over his mouth in a last ditch effort to calm his tank.

 

Whirl ignored him, jogging over to where the others were waiting for them, and Rung lost his battle, and his energon. Splatters of pink decorated Whirl’s leg and pede, though most landed harmlessly in the sand. Whirl paused midstride, looking down at the offensively pink stains on his armor, then looked at Rung.

 

“…Little gross, Eyebrows…feel better now?” Rung shook his head, miserable and still queasy.

 

He tried to ping Ratchet, wanting to know how Wing was, wanting to know where they were going, because they were heading the wrong way to get back to where they’d left the tribe at, but his comms were still shut down. Frustrated, desperate, he shifted his hold on Wing’s helm so he had a servo free, and reached into the back of his intake, scraping his digits against the solid cube of the blocker.

 

“Eyebrows?!” Whirl nearly dropped him, looking down to see him with half his servo down his intake, “Docbot!”

 

By the time Ratchet got Wing settled and came to check on Rung, he’d managed to pull the little box free, coughing and spitting up energon from the little tears in his intake.

 

“You idiot!” Ratchet snarled, grabbing his chin and forcing his face up so he could inspect the damage he’d done, “If you’d waited a few more kliks, I could have gotten the damn thing out with half as much trouble, and far less damage!” He pried his mouth open, shining a pen light from one finger into the back of his mouth and grumbling about impatient fools.

 

“Sorry…” He coughed again, wincing at the burn. It felt like he’d swallowed shards of glass, every time he swallowed, and coughing was just as bad.

 

Ratchet ignored him, in favor of pouring a tiny vial of the precious medical grade energon he kept hoarded in his subspace down his intake. Even as Rung spluttered and choked around the sudden influx of fluid, he could feel the thick liquid coating the inside of his intake, soothing the burn down to a dull sting and sitting heavily in the bottom of his tank without making him feel sick.

 

As soon as he could stop coughing long enough to speak, he asked Ratchet everything he wanted to know. The medic took a step back, holding up his servos to slow Rung down.

 

“Woah, slow down, Rung. We’re not heading back to the campsite. We’re headed to the Falls.”

 

Rung paused, staring up at Ratchet, confused. Ratchet had never actually been to ‘The Falls’ before, there’d never been a need, but he’d heard about it, sure. Everybot in every tribe knew about that place. They were an unexplainable formation, way out beyond the hard-lands surrounding the local city-states. A sand dune, tall as the Citadel in Crystal City, and solid in a way no other dune had ever been. A river of molten mercury bubbled up from beneath the sand, and worked its way down the side of the formation, forming little steps and pools as it went.

 

It was a meeting place in times of need, a neutral territory where no tribe would attack another. Rung had only been there once, to meet with a tribe that had requested his help, back when Drift and Ratchet had first met. That was the last time anyone had used the Falls in _years_. The time before that had been before his time, and that was when all the tribes had come together to push back the armies of the cities, when they’d last attempted to force the nomads away from their ‘territory’.

 

“This idiot drug himself into camp, sparking up a storm. Soon as bucket head heard what happened, and I had Whirl patched back up, we were packing up. We came after you, and he sent runners out to the other tribes, but most of the rest of the tribe headed west, towards the Falls. That’s where we’ll find everyone.”

 

It would be nearly a week’s journey for them, considering Wing was out of commission, Rung had no mobile alt-mode, and Ratchet and Drift were grounders. Even pushing it, running all out in the redline for as long as they could, Rung guessed it would be at least five days before they arrived, and would Wing even be able to survive that sort of pace?

 

“It was a clean install, Rung. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s a blessing in disguise at this point. If we’d arrived any sooner, we may have interrupted them mid-way through, and he’d not have survived escaping the building, let alone getting this far.” Ratchet said, far gentler than Rung had ever heard him. Whirl set him down in the sand, stepping away to speak with Drift.

 

“Can you fix him?” The hope in his voice was like liquid, making his voice waver.

 

Ratchet frowned, looking down at Wing, then back at Rung. “I’m going to try.” He finally settled on saying, leaning down to inspect Rung’s leg.

 

Rung went quiet, chewing on his lip and reaching out with one servo to grab Wing’s good servo and squeeze. He got no response, but he didn’t expect one, to be honest.

 

“When’s he going to wake up?” Ratchet sighed, wrapping a patch around his hydraulic line and rising to his pedes.

 

“In the morning. I want him to get a good solid recharge and defrag, hopefully that will help him integrate the new hardware and keep from glitching till I can get a better look at what I’m dealing with. Drift!” Drift shared a look with Whirl before walking over, hands resting on the hilts of his swords and tilting the sheaths out behind him as he walked. The energon congealing on his plating caught the light in little patches of sparkling pink.

 

“Load Wing up, then you carry Rung.” Rung started to protest, and Ratchet pinned him with a look that allowed no arguments. “When we get _far_ away from this place, I’ll fix your leg. It’ll take more than a quick patch and some fluids, so _deal with it_.”

 

He folded down into his alt mode, and Drift manhandled Wing into his patient bay, leaning in after him to strap him down tightly.

 

“Whirl scout ahead, get camp ready, see eyebrows tonight.” Whirl helped Rung to his feet and maneuvered him into Drift’s alt-mode, bumping their helms together and smiling. “Not so bad, shiny. Could be worse, yea?”

 

Rung blinked back the optical fluids pooling up and nodded, reaching out and squeezing one deadly claw.

 

“Be careful, Whirl.” Whirl waved him off with a promise of being ‘unvincible’. “It’s _in_ vincible, Whirl, and you _aren’t_. Don’t get hurt.”

 

~~~

 

That first night, well away from the lights of the city, and exhausted down to the struts, he curled up against Wing’s chilly, motionless frame, and couldn’t even find the energy to cry. He wanted to, there was no doubt. He just couldn’t do it.

 

His dinner sat just beyond the pile of furs, prepared by Ratchet and delivered by Whirl. He knew he’d have to eat before he recharged, or else Ratchet would have his aft, but it seemed to be too much work to crawl out of the nest for anything. But he could _feel_ Ratchet’s warning glance, and made a show of swallowing down the turbo fox Whirl had caught as quickly as he could before falling back into the nest.

 

Ratchet said nothing, turning back to the fire and speaking in a low, hushed whisper with Drift.

 

Tracing the blunt claw, rudimentary and crude compared to the finely edged tools Whirl wielded, he pressed a kiss to cracked, stained cockpit glass and sighed. The helm (because he couldn’t think of it as Wing’s helm right now, not when it wasn’t attached to Wing, it was just so … wrong.) was covered by a fur, behind him, where it couldn’t stare at him with those accusingly empty optical sockets.

 

His throat burned, a combination of the desire to just let go, to just break down and sob into a cold, quiet chest, and the raw, scraping ache of having removed that vocal blocker. Unable to get around the fire in his intake tubing, he curled up tighter against Wing and pulled the furs snug around them. If he looked into the dark space between cockpit and vent, he didn’t have to look up at the clear night sky that Wing loved so much, or the strange, flat, featureless helm that his mate’s beautiful face had been replaced with. He could shutter his optics, and take in the scent of the jet, still Wing even under the spilt energon and melted components, the crisp tang of electricity not his own, and pretend for a moment that it had all been a horrible dream, some phantom his processor had made up to deal with their excursion into Iacon.

 

His whole frame shuddered, vents coming faster while he curled his fingers into the slats of the jet's vents. If he kept looking in that dark space, he couldn't see the scary, alien helm, or the clumsy claw. It was just him and Wing, camped out under the stars. Except nothing felt right, the bond in his spark a cold, numb thing sitting in his chest.

 

~~~~~

 

The next morning was… startling. Rung had managed to fall into a fitful, restless recharge curled up against his mate’s side. Waking was slow going, sectors of his processor booting out of order and leaving him confused and lost. They weren’t in the citadel, that much he could be sure of, the wind whipping sand against his back testament enough to that.

 

 _Why didn’t I set up a tent?_ He wondered.

 

Wing’s servo on his back was tracing a line up and down his spine, soft and sweet. It wasn’t often that Wing was awake before him, and he hummed, arching into the touch and ignoring the niggling thread in his processor that was warning him something was very not right with the world.

 

“Morning, love.” He murmured, pushing back and up to press a kiss to the jet’s mouth. The servo on his back froze, and Rung onlined his optics with a blur of degauss to see why the other had pulled away.

 

He was thankful his vocalizer glitched when it did. The hurt in Wing’s field was bad enough without the shriek that shorted the still tender wiring of his intake and muted his vocalizer with a spray of sparks. How could he have forgotten? The narrow, tubular helm that was his mate’s replacement, that looked so wrong sitting atop the elegant flight frame with its single amber optic and twitching audial flares flattened to the sides, and Rung could see the concerned look he would have gotten had Wing been whole, just from the feel of his field.

 

Swallowing back the fuel that had worked its way up his intake, he raised shaking servos to frame the dull, ugly helm and pull him back down.

 

“I’m so sorry, Wing…I’m so sorry they did this to you…” His voice hitched, still glitching vocalizer rebooting twice through the halting apology. He pressed a kiss to the blank spot below the optic, a small panel that he knew from experience with Whirl would open for refueling with a small proboscis.

 

Wing’s good servo cupped the side of his face, and his vocalizer clicked and reset.

 

“Wing, don’t try and force it! When we get home,Ratchet can fix it. He can fix it all…” He hoped. It was hard to think past the present, past the glaring proof of the council’s monstrosity kneeling with him on the furs. So long as he clung to the hope that Ratchet could work another miracle, he found he could continue to function. Even thinking about it any other way threatened to freeze him to the spot, and he couldn’t be a liability right now.

 

“Don’t blame yourself, Rung. Please?”

 

The knight’s voice was even flat, dulled by the metal blocking it’s natural exit and filled with a soft vibration. Much like Whirl, the butchers who worked on him hadn’t made a new speaker system for his vocal components, merely stuffed what remained of his oral system inside the small cavity of the new helm. This made everything he said slightly muffled, the unique timbre of his voice now indistinct and unremarkable.

 

“Why not?” Rung laughed, tilting his helm to press against Wing’s palm and clutching at his wrist. “If I hadn’t … If I’d left you alone, let you stay with the others to be fixed by your own medic… if you didn’t know me, they wouldn’t have targeted you to hurt ME.”

 

Wing’s field flared with irritation and love in turn, and the larger mech pushed forward, pressing Rung back into the furs and pinning him down.

 

“Don’t you dare take this on yourself, Rung. Don’t. They made their choices. You didn’t hold a blaster to their helms and make them do it.” Rung twisted his helm, looking away across the sands to avoid optic contact, “You didn’t do this Rung. And…”

 

“And?” The servo on his wrists tightened, the crude claw tapped against his cheek to bring his attention back.

 

“And…I need you. I love you, but right now I really need you, sweetspark. I can’t be the smiling knight right now…I don’t want to ask you, but I really need you to stand with me, help me be strong right now. Please?”

 

Fluid overflowed from his optics, making his vision watery. He pulled his servos free and reached up to pull Wing down, cradling his helm against his spark glass and petting the quivering audial flares while the knight shook. Tear tracks ran down the sides of his face to soak into the furs beneath his helm, but he didn’t dare shift to wipe them away, keeping his servos on Wing, grounding the other.

 

“What they did was wrong, Rung… what they did was a…a violation. They pulled me apart, and I was so scared they were going to do the same to you…” His voice cracked, and Rung smoothed out his own EMF before flooding Wing’s sensors with love he felt with everything in his spark, and none of the anger/fear/self-hatred/disgust he couldn’t help but feel that wouldn’t accomplish anything.

 

“Shhh…I’m right here, sweetspark. I’m not going anywhere, and we’re safe now.” He continued whispering little platitudes into the roiling mess of tangled EMFs between them, stroking the new helm and trying his hardest to not let any of the disconcertion he felt taint his field.

 

When Wing had stopped shaking, and taken a few deep, grounding vent cycles, Rung looked down his chest at the mech, forcing himself to make optic contact and smile. “So you’re the smiling knight?”

 

Embarrassment tinged Wing’s field now, and fondness. “S’what Axe used to call me. Said I never stopped smiling, so that was my name…”

 

Rung pulled at his armor, forcing him to shift up till their helms were even, and pressed a kiss to the blank plating around that amber optic, tamping down on the nausea threatening to overwhelm him.

 

“Well, now you’re _my_ smiling knight, and we’ll get this sorted out. Just focus on putting one pede in front of the other, just keep going, and we’ll get through this eventually.”

 

Ratchet cleared his vocalizer, hovering just outside the nest and watching them with approval in his optics and field both.

 

“Sorry,” He said, holding up his medkit by way of explanation. “Need to fix Rung’s leg up, and want to take a look at you while I’m at it.”

 

Panic flooded Wing’s field, nearly knocking Rung on his back from the sudden strength of it, and he wrapped his arms around the tense frame, pressing that strange-not-right helm into his shoulder with one servo.

 

“You want to go first and get it over with, love? Or would you rather watch Ratchet work on me first?”

 

In the end, Wing had watched as Ratchet repaired Rung’s leg, cleaning the wound and patching it properly before pumping it full of hydraulic fluid and bringing it back under pressure. The wrenched armor was smoothed out, rippled and dented, with cracks in the enamel, but at least it wasn’t gaping open anymore.

 

Then it was Wing’s turn, and Rung distracted him with talk of the Falls while Ratchet tested his reflexes and checked all the connections from his helm to his frame. Neither of them said a word about how Wing tried to flinch away every time Ratchet raised a servo. Rung smoothed his servos over Wing’s servo and claw, pulling them into his lap and testing their connections himself under the guise of a gentle massage, following Ratchet’s commed instructions and reporting back with no damage.

 

“You’ll love it. Lots of beautiful places further up the dune to sit by the pools and meditate.” Rung finished with a smile, squeezing his claw and shifting out from under Wing’s frame to accept Ratchet’s servo up. Wing just nodded, subdued and silent.

 

He flashed Ratchet a look of concern, out of Wing’s line of sight, and Ratchet shook his helm.

 

::Patience, Rung. You _both_ need to get used to this change, and it’s gonna take a while.:: Rung ducked his helm, regret tinging his field before he could rein it in. ::I noticed, yea. Don’t beat yourself up, it’s to be expected…just, don’t give up on him. He’s gonna need a lot of help in the next couple days. Hopefully they’ll have packed up all my gear properly, and I might be able to reverse all this fragging damage those idiots did, playing Primus…::

 

Out loud, Ratchet just shouted for Drift to get it in gear, they needed to move out.

 

Rung spared a glance over his shoulder, back in the direction of the city. Then he grabbed Wing’s servo, smiled what he hoped was a sunny, positive smile, and not the hopeless, spark broken smile he _felt_ inside, and followed after the other mechs. Today, they’d walk, and he’d enjoy the sun, and his mate, and their friends.

 

Once they got to the Falls, things would start to fall into place. They’d find out if Wing could be repaired, and what Megatron’s plans were for calling a meeting there, and he’d deal with things as they came. Until then, he’d follow his own advice, and just put one pede in front of the other. Just keep going.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More pain and sadness in this chapter, but it's a turning point... as proof, here's the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xo1VInw-SKc) I've been outlining the next few chapters to, to give you some hope :D
> 
> Graphic description of Wing's rape, in this chapter, too. If you want to skip it, when you get to the first ~~~~~ divider, skip on down to the ~*~*~* one.

Putting one pede in front of the other proved a hard task over the next few days for Wing. He was slowly drawing out of the numb fog he’d originally woken in. Rung flinched from his touch, stared when he thought Wing wasn’t looking, cried into his plating at night when he obviously thought he was asleep. It was weighing down on him, the burden he’d become for his brand new mate to deal with, for their friends to try and compensate for as they traveled.

 

Not only that, but the pain was setting into his frame as Ratchet’s nanite supply wore down. Often times, he would find himself suddenly drenched in coolant, tank hot and queasy, processor starting to tilt as if the world under his pedes was slowly, ever so slowly, shifting out of alignment. His servo…no, his _claw_ hurt. All the time, it hurt. The connections were stiff and achey, pulling and pinching whenever he tried to manipulate it.

 

The first time Whirl had grabbed hold of it, and started twisting and pulling at it, the pain nearly sent him to his knees. But when that had passed, it took not just the immediate pain with it, but the strut deep burn, as well. Whirl just clicked his own claws in response, and Wing felt shame eating at his tanks instead, at having forgotten that Whirl had gone through the same nightmare, and more. Nobody had shown up to save Whirl.

 

He found himself sticking close to the rotor during the nights when they sat around the fire, cleaning and cooking whatever kill they’d managed to bag during the day. Whirl would reach over whenever he caught sight of the tension slicking his plates down, tweaking fresh connections in his new helm to relieve pressure on his processor-energon feeds. Rung would watch them from nearby, hovering just outside their little sphere of camaraderie, with a strange look on his face. Wing hadn’t been able to figure it out, the nomad’s field tight and controlled, giving away nothing of its owners thoughts.

 

After dinner, he’d curl up and wait for Rung to join him for sleep. The small frame pressed against his, back to back, was hurtful for the distance, but still managed to keep the nightmares mostly at bay. He woke up terrified, but coherent, every morning, energon waiting for him in Rung’s servo as he calmed himself.

 

They settled quickly into a routine, traveling as fast as they could by day, with Whirl flying off ahead to scout and hunt and prepare the night’s camp. He’d tried to go with him on the third day, and Whirl surprised them all, beating Ratchet to the punch and officially grounding Wing till further notice.

 

Instead of explaining himself to Wing, though, he turned to Rung, and started chittering away in a combination of binary, clicks, and tones that Wing had heard around the camp before. The nomadic language was nigh on impossible for him to follow, and despite Rung’s assurances that he would learn when they got a chance to relax, he despaired ever keeping up with the face paced foreign language.

 

“Whirl said your center of gravity is going to be messed up, your…helm…it’s much lighter than before, and it’s going to off balance your alt-mode. Your optical sensors also need to recalibrate for the… the new feed. He won’t be digging you out of a sand dune you thought was halfway across the desert when it hits you in the nose cone…” Rung didn’t meet his optic as he spoke, pausing between sentences as Whirl chattered away.

 

When they stopped to camp that night, Whirl had shot him an apologetic look over the fire, but Wing looked down to his pedes, strangely flat and distant with his lack of depth perception. His meal was bland and tasteless, forced through a hatch that Whirl and Ratchet had worked together to unlock below his helm for fuel consumption the first night. That had been painful, humiliating even, as he tried not to cry and shout at the fire burning up his throat. The first day, he’d nearly purged his tank, the food tasting _wrong_ forced through the little hatch into his flexing throat tubing. The food tasted marginally better with each new day as the the burn turned from a raging inferno to a dull ache, but he still flinched and spilled his meal every time his fingers came in contact with the inside of his tubing.

 

After dinner, he slunk towards the pile of furs that Rung had painstakingly arranged for them, dropping down into them face first and biting back a whimper as he misjudged the distance and jammed one of his pedipalps, hard. Whirl had warned him to tuck them back up into their little notches on the bottom of his helm. He should have listened. Just add that to the list of failures that seemed to be growing exponentially in such a short amount of time, he thought sourly, finding no energy in his frame to roll over, and instead folding his arms above his helm and blocking out what little light the stars and the moons and the fire gave to the cold desert night.

 

Rung hadn’t joined him by the time he started drifting off, and he fell into recharge with a spark weighed down so heavily he thought he might never bother to get back up again.

 

~~~~~

 

 _“So brave…so quiet…”_ No…no, he wasn’t here, not again. He whimpered, tugging at the bindings around his wrists, feeling cool, clinical servos probing at the juncture of his thighs, prying back his panel and sending a line of fire racing up his tac-net to his processor.

 

 _“You’ve been so very quiet so far…better than the desert rat ever was.”_ Trepan’s voice was sickly sweet in his audial as long, thin fingers probed dispassionately at his valve, smearing medical grade lubricant over the dry platelets, sliding inside to spread the slick further. He bucked, trying to dislodge the sickening touch, but his bindings gave him next to no room for movement, and all he managed to do was push them in deeper.

 

 _“We shall see, though. He begged so prettily by this point, do you know that? Did he tell you how he_ begged _us for his next overload. He didn’t_ care _.”_ The wheels of a cart rolled across the smooth plated floor, sliding past his helm, giving him a brief view of the machine on it. He followed its path with his optics, straining the lift his helm up off the med-berth as faceless, nameless nurses set it in place between his spread, straining legs. A simple box, innocuous looking, but he knew better. In the pit of his tank, he dreaded what was to come, and tears sprang to his optics. In his dream, he did what he’d managed to keep from doing in real life.

 

 _“Please!”_ His voice cracked, broke, as the tears overflowed, streaking down his cheeks to puddle on the berth to either side of his helm in cool, sticky pools. “ _Please don’t do this, please. Not again…I can’t-“_ His voice broke off on a shriek as one nurse attached a scope to the still shut iris of his spike panel, and the needle like probes forced their way between the delicate plates to ratchet it open forcefully.

 

Energon slicked his wrists and arms as he struggled futilely against the cuffs, optics wide in horror as the one nurse reached down and drew his limp spike up from its housing, and the other attached an almost comically large false spike to the shaft protruding from the box between his knees.

 

“ _Nonononononononono-“_ He sobbed, twisting away as the nurse who’s servo was wrapped around his soft spike rolled the charge node on top to the side with one thumb, and pressed a slicked metal rod down the small gap afforded to them. The press of a button had a painful charge running up and down the rod, forcibly igniting his sensors and stiffening his spike. A sheath was fit over it, wet and warm and an awful facsimile of a valve, and Wing offlined his optics, thinking of Rung, of the smile of his mate as he’d wrapped his mouth around his spike and brought him to such a sweet, tender overload, of his small, strong servos teasing and tugging at wires and hidden seams, while the false spike stretched his valve wide, wider than he felt he could bare. Calipers strained and fought against the intrusion, and no amount of lubricant could make the burn disappear as he feared he would be split in two.

 

 _“Open your optics, knight. Your people are fond of paying penance, I’ve heard, yes?_ ” Trepan hissed, dragging slick fingers along his cheek, his free servo spiraling up and down one of his nacelles, playing with the pinions and tweaking along the hinges. _“Consider this a penance, then. When it’s paid, you’ll be free of it all. Free of these thoughts of freedom plaguing your mind, free of the pain…free of the little desert rat.”_ Needle points played at the back of his helm, and he screamed, optics wide and unfocused as a painful overload ripped through him.

 

~*~*~*

 

He awoke, still screaming. There were servos on his frame, trying to hold him down, and he batted them away, struggling free of his confines and scrambling on servos and knees away from the grasping servos. Why couldn’t he stop screaming? Why couldn’t he see? It was so dark!

 

A heavy frame pinned him to the ground, but it wasn’t ground, it was too soft, too malleable. He thrashed, trying to escape the weight holding him down, but the body on top of his was unmovable.

 

“-ing.. _Wing!_ ” A voice pierced through the haze of terror clouding his processor, and small servos gripped the sides of his helm, thumbs stroking the rim of his optical casing even as the palms held firm.

 

“Kid, watch it! Last thing you need is to crack the other one!” Slowly, too slowly, the world resolved into focus, the watery splotches of shadow sharpened into the shapes of his companions. Ratchet was draped over him, arms a band around his, keeping him from flailing out and hurting anyone. Drift and Whirl watched warily from a ways off, and Drift, alarmingly, had one servo on the hilt of a sword as he eyed Wing.

 

Rung. Sweet, precious, perfect Rung. The servos on his featureless, abomination of a face belonged to his mate, who stared into his single optic with a face full of concern, with none of the hurt or sadness he’d worn the last few days in sight. His optics were overflowing with tears, and Wing realized with a drop of his tank, that they may not actually be from his predicament. Ratchet’s words looped in his processor, over and over again, as he stared at the cracked and sparking optic, the light behind it burnt out.

 

He reached out as soon as Ratchet leaned back, still pinning him, but giving him the freedom of his arms. His servo hovered just above the damage, trembling, fingers curling into his palm. Rung grabbed with both of his own, and pressed the shaking servo to his cheek, leaning into the touch and offlining his good optic.

 

The dam broke, and Ratchet was unseated as he surged up, gathering up his mate in his arms and curling around him. The tears wouldn’t stop, _couldn’t_ stop, no matter if he tried. He wondered if this was what it felt like when the sparklings in camp would cry. It was out of control, wild and freeing in its hurt. His chest ached, his throat burned now from the tears instead of the damage, and his vision was clouded by a film of optical solvent as he cried unrestrainedly into the top of Rung’s helm.

 

Small servos reached around to his back, stroking the tense flight panels folded there, soothing them into relaxation as he coughed and hiccuped and sniffed his way through the sick fear that had been building in his tank for the last three days.

 

Ratchet’s gruff voice behind them snapped at the mechs watching his breaking, ushering them back to the fire and ordering their optics into the dark, to “do yer fragging job and stand watch already.”

 

Rung waited till he’d quieted, sobs stifled and slowed as he gathered the tattered remains of his dignity around him and raised up to rub at his face. The painful scratch of his clumsy claw over the massive sensor pad around his optic set the tears running fresh, but silent now. The smaller mech knelt up, cupping his face and pressing kisses to the rim.

 

“Please, love…” He whispered against his pedipalps, fingers kneading the audials that were all that was left of his old face.

 

“I’m sorry…” Wing muttered, looking away, plating slicking back once more.

 

“No, you misunderstand me… don’t apologize for this.” Rung forced him back with firm servos, meeting his optic with fury and fire in his face. “Don’t you _dare_ apologize. You asked me to be strong for you, and I’m trying, love. I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, I should have come to bed with you instead, I _should have been here_.” It was Rung’s turn to tremble and shake, optics welling up again, the broken one spitting sparks at the contact with the cleanser.

 

Wing shook his helm, but Rung cut him off before he could protest.

 

“No, Wing. Let me talk, please?” He looked over Wing’s shoulder at the others, then stood and grabbed him with both servos, servo to claw, and tugged him up with him.

 

They didn’t wander far, the fear of being captured again a silent threat hanging over their helms like a specter as they walked. When Rung stopped, he turned to face him, and made a show of gathering both of Wing’s servos in his once more. A kiss was pressed first to his good servo, then to his claw, while Rung held optic contact.

 

The quivering thing in his spark, the fear and hurt and pain that he’d harbored was shrinking, slowly, nearly imperceptibly, but each firm touch helped to cut it down just a little bit further. He relaxed into the touch, armor flaring to let the heat of his stress escape into the air, and Rung smiled at him.

 

“I’m scared, Wing.” His optic widened, and his plating slicked down again as he reeled back from Rung’s touch, unable to hold back the hurt flooding his field. Rung pulled him back with a scowl, mindless of the crunch between them. “Let me _finish_. I can’t be your strength. Not alone. I need you as much as you need me. I’m _trying_ …but all I see every time you flinch, or hurt, or cry out in your sleep, is my own failure. I _couldn’t protect you_.”

 

“Stop.” His voice was hoarse, scratchy in his throat as he lifted his servo to cover Rung’s mouth. “You didn’t fail me…how could you think that?”

 

Rung raised an eyebrow, optic rolling down in a pointed glance at the servo still over his mouth, and Wing removed it sheepishly, resting it instead on a rounded shoulder.

 

“I should have been able to protect you from them. The point of a mate isn’t to drag them into your past…” Rung chuckled hollowly, and Wing scowled. At least, he _hoped_ he scowled. Whirl made it look so effortless.

 

“That’s ridiculous, Rung… _I_ drew our attention, when we went after Redline, remember? You can’t protect me from the entire _council_ , no matter how fierce you are…I failed you by dragging you into that…”

 

Rung held his gaze for a moment, then started laughing. Hysterical, frantic laughter born from stress and panic and hurt, he couldn’t stop, and Wing found himself joining in. They collapsed together in the sand as the laughs turned back to tears, pressing their helms together. Rung peppered his face with little kisses, smearing cleanser over his plating as shaking servos held him close.

 

It took long, painful minutes for them to calm again, leaning against each other with the desperation of mechs who knew they’d fall flat without the other’s support. When they finally parted, Rung wiped at the tears clinging to the rim of his optical housing, smearing them away and kissing his still stinging pedipalps before pulling back.

 

“Are…are we okay?” Wing asked, returning the favor by smoothing his thumb under Rung’s good optic, flicking away the fluids that clung to it.

 

“…I don’t know…maybe not yet?” Wing slumped, pulling away, and Rung sighed, rolling his optic and leaning in after him. “I’m not healthy, Wing…I’ve got problems, too. We’re a bad match for each other…” Damnit, how could he have any tears _left_ after the last…half hour?!

 

“But we’ll pull through, okay?” Rung continued, pressing on as the dejection darkened Wing’s field. “We’ll manage, and we’ll _get_ _back to okay_. I promise.”

 

He shook as he was pulled into a hug, folded down as best as he could into the comfort and shelter of Rung’s frame. And if Rung avoided his helm now, palms flat and firm on his back, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he buried it into Rung’s abdominal armor, hunched over on his knees till his back was nearly flat under Rung’s servos, hiding the proof of his disfigurement from the nomad’s view for the moment.

 

The hurt was still there, and still ached like fire. But Rung’s servos were cool, soft counterpoints to the burn. He was right. They’d get back to okay. They’d prove the fragging council wrong, they’d get through this. He had to be strong for Rung even as Rung was supporting him, but they’d make it work, somehow. Rung’s frame gradually stilled over and around him, the shaking slowing and his vents calming, leaving only his servos moving, stroking lovingly over his back.

 

Just one pede in front of the other…just like Rung had said. He could do that, he thought.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very brief mention of Rung's rape at the hands of the Institute. Skip the paragraph surrounded by ** if you don't want to read it :)

Wing had never been this far out before, and it was a light hearted bit of reprisal from the bleakness of their situation for Rung to watch his optic widen so comically in his helm as the landscape changed from the empty, dune filled plains he was so used to, to the harder, scrubby landscape out beyond the rim. They’d crossed over the divide, where the ground had shifted over hundreds of thousands of years and left behind a chasm that discouraged city dwellers to cross.

 

When he’d been led to the edge, Rung had barely contained his laughter as Drift and Ratchet both stepped right over into the shadows. Wing had jerked forward, servo and claw both stretched out as if he could catch the other two mechs when they’d already disappeared from sight. Taking pity on Wing, he’d put his back to the divide, and held both servos as he stepped down. The ledge he’d stepped on was much closer to the surface than the one the others had used, so Wing could still see his face, as the rest of his frame was swallowed up by the dim gloom below.

 

Once he’d managed to convince Wing they were all safe, and that they’d be up and out of the confined space relatively quickly, Wing had trustingly followed him down from ledge to ledge, going deeper into the dark.

 

Here, with a caravan, they’d have had to unload the carriers, and haul things down between mechs, as the ledges were wide enough to support massively sized frames, but there was no way for a loaded truck-former to drive down to the bridge strung across the chasm, out of sight of those who didn’t know to look for it.

 

With nothing but what they carried in their subspace, and with Ratchet having taken pity on Rung and confiscating Wing’s helm early on in their travels, it was slow going only so far as having to guide an unsteady Wing. With his depth perception destroyed, his biggest fear was putting a pede out into empty air, but Rung made sure to keep to the outside edge himself, so Wing could have on servo on the rock-face at all times.

 

Now, back up on solid ground, with the sun beating down on their plating once more, Wing seemed more at ease, and swiveled his helm near constantly to take in the new formations that seemingly sprang from nothingness. Plateaus and tumbled rock piles dotted the horizon, and on the fifth morning, Rung was able to point out the shadow shape of the falls in the distance.

 

“That’s where we’re headed.” He leaned against Wing’s side, smiling up at him as his optic zeroed in on the gray smudge of color Rung pointed at. “We’re making great time, too. We might make it there by tomorrow afternoon if we can keep up the pace.”

 

“And other tribes will be there?”

 

“Should be. Ratchet said he sent out summons, but I don’t know to who, or how many…”

 

“Gonna find out…” Whirl muttered, nudging Rung and pointing with one careless claw to a figure in the distance. From this far away, he couldn’t make out who it was, the heat distorting the air around it till it was an indistinct, wavy mass of shadow, but whoever it was, it was definitely heading towards them, and the Falls.

 

This close to the meeting grounds, where no mech would raise a servo against another, even with their distrust of strangers, they all waited, resting and enjoying the extra time off their pedes. Soon enough, the mass defined itself into a most familiar shape.

 

“Tarn!” Rung waved at Megatron’s loyal warrior, smiling when a servo was raised in return. The smile dropped when he realized the other servo was locked firmly in place around the back of a mech’s neck. The slightly shorter mech was stumbling along, helm down, servos bound. His red and white plating was scuffed and scratched and dented, and Rung had no doubt that the tribe’s guardian had meted out what he considered just punishment for trespassing. This was clearly a city mech, after all.

 

But the question was, what was he doing so far out?

 

Tarn pushed him to his knees when he stepped into their little circle, the servo on his neck firm. The stranger crashed to his knee plates in a graceless drop, wincing and trying to shy away from Tarn.

 

<<Who’s this?>> Rung asked, switching back to the tribe’s language despite Wing’s lack of knowledge. Tarn was a stickler for the old ways, and would tell him nothing so long as he spoke in something other than their own tongue.

 

<<Trespasser. I found him the other side of the rim, when we were checking the perimeter.>>

 

When Tarn said ‘we’, Rung (rightfully) assumed he spoke of his fellow guardians, mechs from the other tribes who had come to the gathering who took no mate, no family, and dedicated their entire functions to the safety of their people. It was a sad, lonely existence, Rung thought, but despite his repeated offers of friendship to the larger mech, he was consistently turned down. Tarn was nice enough, but he took his job deadly seriously, devoted to Megatron almost to the point of fanaticism.

 

Rung frowned, kneeling down to inspect the stranger. His plating was blazing to the touch, and he flinched when Rung tried to tilt his face up and offer him coolant.

 

<<Why did you bring him here, Tarn? Now that he knows the way across the rim, you’ve sealed his fate.>> Rung sighed, trying once again to catch the mech’s attention. This time, he raised his helm, and when their optics met, his flared wide, jaw dropping open.

 

“R-rung?” His vocalizer croaked with disuse or disrepair, one, but the name on his lips was clear as day. Rung leaned back, brows furrowed.

 

“R-rung…it _is_ you!”

 

“I…I’m sorry?” The mech frowned, leaning forward and yelping when Tarn shoved him back, sending him sprawling flat on his back in the sand. <<Tarn!>>

 

<<He’ll learn his place, or he won’t.>> Tarn shrugged, scratching along the weld line of his mask with his free servo. The other, the one that had pushed the city-mech, hovered above the splayed mech, waiting for him to rise again.

 

Rung rolled his good optic, reaching out and helping to pull the other mech back up to his knees. Careful servos brushed the sand from his plating. The mech was _thick_. Just, everything about him was reinforced, like a mech half again his height had been compressed down. His fingers traced little weld lines, scars, raised ridges, and he found himself concerned with the amount of them he was finding.

 

<<What happened to your mate? Tell me he’s not copying Whirl, now?>> Whirl snarled, clearly managed a rude gesture with his servo despite not having any. Wing looked up, startled, from where he’d been studying his good servo, and teeked of confusion as his field brushed tentatively against Rung’s. Rung wasn’t fooled, he was _sure_ Wing had been paying very close attention to the whole exchange, despite his nonchalant appearance, and in spite of the fact that he couldn’t possibly understand Tarn, or Rung, for that matter.

 

<<Come over here and say that to my face, you masked glitch!>> Whirl growled, stalking over to lean up and press his optic to Tarn’s mask. Rung, used to the drama between Whirl and…everyone, sighed, and wedged himself between them. Back to Whirl, he pushed. Ultimately, he only gained a very small bit of space once he put his pedes against Tarn’s thighs and threw his whole frame into it, and it left him in the problematic position of being suspended between the two.

 

“Stop! P-please don’t hurt him!” The city mech shouted, struggling to his pedes and throwing himself on top of Rung, tackling him to the ground and covering him with his much larger frame. Rung had flipped them before even Tarn could react, kneeling astride the other mech’s chest plate, staring down into comically rounded optics.

 

“You say you know me?” He demanded, words coming out much more strongly than he felt. Inside, he was a riot of confusion. Something in him _insisted_ he knew this mech in turn, but no amount of searching would pull up any data to corroborate. Still, he felt concerned for this stranger, for the amount of scars on his frame, the fearful way his optics darted around the group, only relaxing marginally when he looked up at Rung looming over him.

 

The mech didn’t say anything, optics widening as Rung leaned further into his space, staring him down. His armor clamped down tight against his frame, and he shook his helm, bringing his bound servos up between them.

 

“What’s your name?” Rung tried again, leaning back. He’d never seen a mech _so_ fearful of him before.

 

The mech glared at Whirl, who had crouched down next to them and was staring unnervingly at him. Rung waved him away, pinning him with a glare of his own when he didn’t step back. Claws raised, he backed away to hover next to Wing, who was watching the proceedings calmly.

 

“You already knew my name.” The mech finally said, twisting and trying to pull himself out from under Rung, but he held firm, fingers latched onto the chest plate for stability.

 

“But I don’t know it _now_.”

 

“His name’s Red Alert, isn’t it?” The mech yelped, twisting to stare at Wing, who shrugged.

 

“You used to speak with Dai Atlas from time to time, report things that you thought were suspicious about the comings and goings of the citadel. That one mech, Zipline? The council plant? That was you that warned us, wasn’t it?”

 

“Red Alert?” Rung tried, and smiled when the mech instinctively looked up at him in response to the name. “That’s your name then?”

 

He pursed his lips, but gave a short, jerky nod.

 

“Red Alert, I’m afraid I don’t remember you, I’m very sorry…but what are you doing this far out? You’re obviously from the city…”

 

Red Alert stared at Tarn, and Rung felt another sigh bubbling up in his vents.

 

<<Tarn? Please, leave him with us?>>

 

<<He goes before Chief Megatron.>> Tarn insisted, crossing his arms and glaring down at them from behind the stylized mask.

 

<<And he’ll go there whether you take him straight away, or I deliver him to you in a few cycles. I want to know what he’s doing out here, and I don’t think he’s going to tell you.>>

 

<<Everyone talks.>> He accompanied this with a cracking of his knuckles, and Red Alert froze beneath him, save for minute tremors that rattled his plating against Rung’s thighs.

 

<<Tarn…>> It wasn’t often that Rung went pede to pede with Megatron’s most loyal, but even he backed conceded. Eventually.

 

<<I’ll be waiting at the gate.>> Tarn growled, turning on his heel and stalking off towards the falls.

 

Whirl giggled, clapping his claws together and waving at Tarn’s retreating back.

 

<<Whirl…>> Rung sighed, climbing off Red Alert and helping pull him up to a seated position. “I’m sorry, Red Alert…You have to understand, we’re very cautious about outsiders here…”

 

It took most of the day, time spent coaxing the mech into talking when they should have been on the move, but in the end, after sending Ratchet and Drift and Whirl off to hunt, Red Alert relaxed enough to speak in bits and pieces about his reasoning for being there. He still kept a watchful optic on Wing, but his mate seemed familiar with the mech, and smoothed out his EM field and sat cross-legged in the sand the entire time, optic closed and a peaceful hum from his engine a steady background noise.

 

When he finally started talking, Rung wasn’t sure he wouldn’t regret it.

 

Red Alert painted a vivid picture as he spoke, seemingly comfortable with speaking with Rung, even though he constantly reminded him that he was a stranger to him. Red Alert assured him that he knew him, even if he didn’t remember, and spoke of their hundreds upon hundreds of sessions, insisting Rung had been his psychotherapist. Something felt right about that, somewhere inside Rung, in that blank space that made up his time before the Functionists.

 

“Don’t worry, Rung. I know you don’t remember me know…but I’ve been looking for you since you disappeared! I finally found you, and I’ll make sure you stay safe from them.”

 

“Them?”

 

“The Institute.” He whispered conspiratorially, looking around as if expecting the specters of the feared Institute to pop up out of the sand and surround them at any moment.

 

“Too late.” He jumped nearly out of his frame as Whirl stomped into camp and dropped a brace of turbo foxes and a pair of cyber-rabbits between Rung and Red Alert.

 

“What?” Red Alert had scooted back, plating clamped flat again as he watched the rotor warily, bound servos fisted and raised.

 

“Whirl!” Rung admonished the other mech when he leaned down and poked a claw into Red Alert’s face.

 

“What? Didn’t tell him spent six cycles with them before we came, eyebrows? Why not?”

 

Red Alert froze, turning his helm slowly to stare at Wing, and the proof of their stay with the Institute.

 

“Because, Whirl, I didn’t think it was necessary yet.” Rung snarled, stepping between Red Alert and Wing, hiding his mate from the judging gaze of this strange mech who claimed to have thousands of years of history with him.

 

“I failed…” Red Alert whispered, hurt dampening his field, weighing it down and hitting them all with the force of his abject misery.

 

“You didn’t know.” Rung said firmly, leaning down and picking up the mechanimals to pass back to Wing for cleaning.

 

Nothing he said would get through to the mech, though, and the rest of the evening was spent with the mech a large, silent, gloomy presence in the midst of camp. Ratchet rolled his optics, but left well enough alone, curling up around Drift as the night wore on, and wrapping his arms around his mate.

 

“You take watch, Whirl, since you’re so keen on staring at everyone. Leave the poor mech alone and go terrorize the wildlife for a while.”

 

Rung agreed with Ratchet, helping Wing reset their nest, securing Red Alert by binding his servos to his pedes with a long length of cable. “Not that there’s anywhere for you to go…but rules are rules.” He explained when the mech shot him a hurt look. He felt suddenly like the world’s biggest jerk, like he’d just kicked one of Trailbreaker’s turbo-hounds.

 

Red Alert said nothing, scooting around till his back was to the fire and he could stare out across the desert. Rung had a feeling he would find the mech hadn’t moved, come morning. Or slept.

 

That would be no problem for him, however, as he dropped into the nest next to Wing, curling up with his back to his cockpit and dropping straight off into recharge. Anything was preferable to trying to fit together the bits of life Red Alert had insisted were his, with the mech he was now.

 

~~~~~

 

 _“Dear, dear subject 12…I’m afraid our time together is coming to a close…”_ Trepan’s voice was like syrup in his audials, dripping and oozing with false sadness as those mnemo needles traced his faceplates with mock tenderness.

 

Rung gasped, twisting his helm away despite the massive amount of effort it seemed to take. His whole frame _burned_ , and oh Primus he’d nearly forgotten how badly he’d hurt in those last days with the mech. He’d never known such agony since then, and he begged with himself, to please _please_ just wake up! He knew it was a memory purge, but that didn’t stop the terror that made his plating crawl, or the strut deep fire of pain that made up the focus of his world.

 

 _**“Now, now…you’ve been so good so far. I personally enjoyed your performance the other day. Quite…exhilarating.”_ Rung didn’t quite bite back the sob as Trepan, now that he had a name to go with the face of the monster in his nightmares, reminded him of how broken he’d become. The burn in his valve now took center stage, a reminder of his injuries that would take _decades_ to heal without the care of a proper medic. Ratchet had unfortunately come along much, much later in life. But right now, he couldn’t focus beyond the grinding of broken calipers, snapped edges rubbing across one another as they tried and failed to cycle down to factory settings. The last session spent with the technicians and their charge alternators had done damage he’d feared would never heal.**

 

Those needles pressed into his ports, and there was a jolt of charge that Rung didn’t remember. The memory playback paused, corrupted. Then, data flooded his memory core, jagged and out of focus. He couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing, feeling. He knew he was shunting things into a hidden partition as fast as Trepan could track them down, but at the same time, everything was falling back out, and he couldn’t keep up, couldn’t keep ahead of the data flow. He found himself drowning in the influx, Trepan’s face disappearing under a tide of familiar unfamiliar faces, Red Alert’s at the fore.

 

~~~~~

 

He woke screaming. Where was he? What had happened? He wasn’t in the Institute building, but he wasn’t in his own home, either. Looking around, pump hammering behind his armor and vents open wide, he locked onto Red Alert’s face, terrified as he jerked ineffectually against the bonds tied around his limbs. Rung was scrambling across the sand, kicking at the frame trying to pull him back. Shaking servos were working at the knots binding poor Red Alert when he was picked up off the ground and pinned against someone’s frame.

 

“Rung! Rung, calm down! Please? It was just a bad purge.” The mech’s voice was filled with concern, but it echoed hollowly, and he couldn’t place who it was that was speaking. He felt like he _should_ know this person, but he _didn’t_ , and he didn’t waste any time sinking his dentae into the mech’s white and red plating.

 

“RUNG!” He froze, turning to stare at the person who’d snapped. A medic was disentangling himself from a pile of…furs? He was still trying to figure out what it was that the medic, and himself, had been sleeping in, when the medic in question stalked over to him, gripping his helm firmly in one servo and shining a light in his optics.

 

“Wing, take him back over there, keep him calm. I need to get a data jack out of my kit. Think something got scrambled when he woke up.”

 

“It’s okay, love…I’ve got you…” The mech turned him around as he set back down in the pile of bedding, and Rung got his first good look at the mech. He only barely held back his shock at the sight of the featureless helm, clapping a servo over his mouth.

 

“Rung?” The mech prompted, nudging at the side of his face with that awful tubular faceless helm.

 

“Who are you?”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to 4thelurvofnerds for reading through this chapter! :D Any mistakes left in here are completely on me! XD

It only took Ratchet a few minutes of being hooked up to Rung’s processor to realize something more than just a bit of corrupted data had occurred, and pulled Wing aside with a terse order to Drift to keep an optic on things.

 

While they spoke, he fiddled with the neat, if inflamed, weld line around Wing’s claw, needing something to do with his servos while he thought the problem through.

 

“When Rung was with the Institute, the first time round, it looks like he might have tried to make a backup of himself, behind a patient confidentiality lock.” Wing tilted his helm, blinking that one massive amber optic as he processed the information given to him.

 

“Why would he have one of those?”

 

Ratchet shrugged. “He may have been a medic, Wing. I have one I store all my patient knowledge behind. It’s standard practice, they’re next to impossible to hack, and patient privacy is a big deal. I can’t get behind it to figure out what’s in there, so all I can do is speculate.”

 

“So…what’s going to happen now? He didn’t _recognize me_.”

 

“Hopefully, these files will integrate with his directory trees without incident, and he’ll slowly come back to himself after he processes all the data.” That was a best case scenario, and Ratchet didn’t bother to hide that from the knight, resting a servo on his shoulder. “If not…he’ll need a lot of help, kid. Until the data normalizes, there are going to essentially be two Rungs in that mech’s processor. I know he’s told you that his life started in the Institute. This other Rung, this is the Rung he was _before_ that, with no knowledge of the desert, or of his life from the point he was taken, up to now.” Wing risked a glance over his shoulder, peeking at Rung, who was fussing over Red Alert, and glaring at Drift when the nomad stopped him from untying the mech.

 

“To him, it must seem like he fell asleep in the institute and woke up here the next morning. It’s going to take a while, and he’s going to depend on all of us, even if he doesn’t want to, until he comes back to himself.”

 

Wing nodded, still watching as his mate smoothed a gentle servo over the bound mech’s forehead and whispered to him, something that had the mech beaming up at him.

 

~~~~~

 

“You want me to eat _what?_ ” Rung asked incredulously, eyeing the meat Drift offered him with something like horror on his face. Wing wondered if he’d looked the same way when Rung had first offered _him_ a meal.

 

What he _wanted_ to do was to take the small frame into his lap, wrap his arms around him, and shield him from everything. Feed him by hand, show him that it wasn’t as bad as it seemed, pull him into their nest and never leave again, because outside the nest, bad things seemed to always happen.

 

But what he _wanted_ to do, and what he _had_ to do were two completely different things. Rung eyed him with distrust and fear any time he drew near, so he found himself walking next to Ratchet, instead. He would have joined Whirl in the sky, but the copter had been firm that he wouldn’t let Wing offline himself in a sand dune somewhere while his mate wasn’t around to keep him grounded. He’d taken off in a flurry of rotors, speeding away towards the meeting place to hunt down a mech Ratchet had asked him to find, and to let Megatron know what was going on.

 

So Wing was left on the ground, dragging his pedes behind the medic, when they _finally_ walked into the bustling campsite.

 

If things had been different, he would have been happy to take in the sights with slack jawed amazement. The camp was easily ten or more times larger than what he’d grown used to with the tribe. Mechs he’d never seen before moved between the tents with a purpose, talking away in that weird combination of tones and clicks. Little ones rolled and chased and played in the clear areas, laughing and pouncing on one another with no regard for which tribe they belonged to, rolling up into their little armored balls and letting themselves be rolled around by other sparklings like big toys.

 

And ahead of them, casting a shadow over the massive gathering, were the falls.

 

Wing’s optic was caught, and he found it difficult to look away. It was a formation worthy of admiration. Mercury bubbled up from an underground spring somewhere beneath the enormous dune, and cascaded down the one side, gathering in large pools where time had worn away at the surface, and spilling over to the next, lower, bowl, till it collected in a shining, mirror covered lake at the base of the falls. Mechs sat around the shoreline, talking, eating, laughing.

 

If their situation hadn’t been so dire, he would have found it inspiring, how mechs from different tribes mingled without distrust or hatred in their sparks. The city mechs found that difficult to do between cities, and yet these ‘barbarians’ could lay aside weapons and differences, and come together so easily.

 

As it was, he found it hard to tear himself away from the beauty presented to him. But Rung was standing in the middle of a crowd of tribesmechs, looking extremely uncomfortable as they greeted him like old friends, friends whose faces he didn't recognize, who grabbed at him, clapping him on the back and pressing helms together with an ease that spoke of familiarity and comfort. The small mech had a smile on his face, but it was one Wing recognized, not from his mate because he'd never seen a smile the other didn't mean. It was the smile of a socialite, a senator, a doctor, in an unfamiliar setting. Forced, tight, not reaching his optics.

 

Wing stepped in, garnering the attention and shock of the tribe, drawing attention off his uncomfortable mate.

 

Servos grabbed at him, and he suffered it gladly, forcibly reminding himself that these mech meant him no harm as they studied his wounds, his distorted and discolored plating. Grumbles and snarls were made, in the nomad language and in Neo-Cybex for his benefit, demanding to know what had happened.

 

Thankfully, Ratchet had followed him into the mass of frames, and pulled them both out with a snarl, at them, at the others, Wing couldn't be sure. Either way, he led them off, shouting at the protesting crowd over his shoulder to give them some time to get the 'stink of the city off before you start demanding a blow by blow.'

 

Wing followed along dutifully, watching Rung from the corner of his optic. The mech was studying him in turn, and the only reason he could tell was because those ever present goggles were gone, left behind in the mess of the Institute. Without them, he looked older and younger at once, somehow, face lighter without the heavy coverings, but the lines of his face prominent, casting shadows under his optics. He wanted to stoop down, to sweep him up in his arms and pepper his face with kisses till the confusion and pain smoothed away, but multiple things stood in his way, not the least of which being that his mate didn't really recognize him. It felt so strange to curse any mech, to wish ill on them, but for the first time since he took up the oaths of the Circle, he found himself doing just that. It sat uneasily in his tank, making him nauseous.

 

They locked optics, and Rung was quick to look away, flushing and rubbing at his nose.

 

"Here," Ratchet finally said, having lead them a good distance away while he'd been caught up in his thoughts, and rounding a smaller outcropping revealed a small, clear solvent pool. "Get cleaned up. Drift and I'll be close by, so nobody'll bug you." With that, the dusty medic stomped away through the short, scrubby growth, back towards the outcropping, and Drift. The nomad lifted a servo, waving to them, then linked servos with Ratchet and led him away around the edge of the raised ground, out of sight, but not out of audial range should they be needed.

 

Wing hovered for a minute, scuffing his toe cap in the grainy dirt and sand mixture that made up the majority of the area. Rung looked at him, twisting his servos together in front of his spark glass and chewing on his lip.

 

“You…you want to go first?” Rung gestured to the pool, the sun glistening on the surface of the cool, inviting cleanser.

 

“It’s more than big enough for the both of us.” Wing risked pointing out, and it _was_. The little pool wasn’t massive by any stretch of the imagination, but two mechs Wing or Ratchet’s size could fit without coming in contact with one another. Even if that was exactly the _opposite_ of what Wing wanted.

 

“I-I suppose it is…” Rung looked away, face bright red, and didn’t that take Wing back to before this whole institute mess, when he wouldn’t meet Wing’s optics and flushed so prettily.

 

Wing held out a servo, hope flooding his field despite his best intentions. Rung chewed on his lip, staring at the proffered servo and clearly thinking carefully about what to do.

 

Finally, he accepted the offer. Wing folded his fingers around the smaller servo with a silent sigh of relief, and helped him pick his way down the steep bank and into the cool cleanser.

 

For a while, they sat in silence, each soaking in the refreshing liquid and sticking to their own side of the pool. Rung only moved closer when Wing attempted to clean the grit out of gears in his arm with his claw. Clumsy, dangerous, he nicked a wire and energon trickled down his arm into the solvent, staining it pink.

 

"Here, may I?" It took almost more control than Wing had to not tell the smaller bot that they were mates, of course he could. Instead, he nodded mutely, and held perfectly still for the other as he waded closer and inspected the damage. Gentle servos prodded between plates, coming away slicked with pink.

 

"It's already clotting, so there's that." Rung laughed, a nervous little chitter that sounded so wrong, so fake. "I can help you, if you'd like..." Wing nodded mutely, continuing to hold still as those servos carefully picked out grit and other unwanted things from between his joints.

 

"How did... How did this happen?" The question was cautious, whispered to the space between them while a single servo traced the angry weld line across his wrist. The claw clasped reflexively, and Rung pulled back. Wing chanced it, reaching out with his servo to grab hold of the other mech's wrist.

 

Rung froze, looking up at Wing, mouth open in a shocked little 'o' that Wing desperately wanted to kiss. Instead, he just kept a loose hold on the slim wrist, thumb rubbing at the softer, thinner metal near his servo.

 

"A long story, and if you can't remember it, that's a good thing..."

 

"You...you seem very familiar with me..." Rung stuttered, optics darting back and forth, flush intensifying every time he laid optics on Wing.

 

"We know each other. I'm torn..." Wing hesitated, and Rung made a curious noise, looking up at his face, optics wide, "I want, desperately, for you to remember me... But I.. I don't want you to remember what we've been through the last few days..."

 

The nomad regressed to city mech frowned again, and shook his helm. “It’s not-It’s not that I _don’t remember_ … I just can’t access the files. I know they’re _there_. Just, inaccessible. I _know_ I know you, I just don’t know _how_.” He’d stepped in closer as he spoke, optics locked on his chest to avoid his optic, and Wing was shocked to realize just how close he’d gotten when he put both servos on his cracked cockpit. The lack of depth perception was going to be the death of him if he didn’t acclimate soon.

 

He guided the mech to sit on a little grouping of rocks peeking up out of the pool, and sat next to him, running a cleaning cloth over the patches of grime that had accumulated around bleeding wounds. Rung looked down at the buckled plating, the gashes and tears in armor with wide optics, servos rattling against his thighs as he held still for the careful ministrations.

 

When he was done, he set the cloth aside, and put his servo and claw in his own lap, looking down at them while he tried to find the words to say. A servo cupped the side of his helm, and he jerked back, startled. Rung followed him, standing to be at a better height and leaning over, fingers still gentle on the rim of his optical housing, thumb brushing the base of a pedipalp.

 

“This…there was talk of it, of a new form of punishment. I lobbied against it for years.” The fingers curled around the lip of the housing, still soft and gentle, but oh so close to his single optic that he couldn’t help but flinch.

 

“It’s very common now.” He admitted, encircling the small, so small, so breakable wrist with his servo, holding him in place when he tried to pull away.

 

“There’s no excuse for this sort of mutilation!” Wing flinched at the sudden explosion, the calm and soothing energies of his mate’s field whipped into a passionate frenzy, replaced with _righteous anger/conviction/disbelief._ “I can’t believe you could do _anything_ to deserve this!”

 

“I- _We_ rescued a friend from the people that did this. This was my punishment.” Wing chose not to mention the repeated reminders Trepan had given him that this was, in fact, punishment for associating with Rung. He’d take that secret to the Well with him, whether his Rung came back or not.

 

Rung was quiet for long minutes, cupping Wing’s helm in both servos now and leaning in to press their foreheads together. Wing shifted, trying to not notice how odd it felt, for his optic and housing to be nearly as large as Rung’s face now, and how his focal point was no longer in the same spot, how he couldn’t refocus his optics to take in his whole face, how he could only see the bridge of his nasal ridge, and the slight indent, the shiny patch of metal where his goggles sat day in and day out.

 

“You didn’t deserve this. There is _no_ justification for this type of punishment, and especially not what you have done.” Rung spoke slowly and clearly, backing it up with a firm touch of his field to Wing’s, an almost physical caress of energy against his plating. For the first time in weeks, his frame relaxed, armor flaring out and settling. He couldn’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around Rung, and the other mech squeaked when he was pulled into a tight embrace, Wing’s helm burrowing into his shoulder.

 

Finally, careful servos reached around, resting against his back and stroking carefully at the empty channel for his Greatsword. His field was careful, full of calm and soothing emotions but nothing too personal, and it was a painful reminder that the embrace may be familiar, but this wasn’t the mech he’d grown to love. But maybe, if he didn’t come back, maybe they could start over again. Maybe it was for the best that Rung couldn’t remember all the horrible things that had happened to him since the Institute’s first go round with him. Maybe it was best he didn’t remember the rocky start to their relationship.

 

Maybe they’d be all right, in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Holy ok, this started out as a real simple what if inspired by two other works. What it's becoming is something much larger o.0  
> First Transformers fic, please let me know if I've made any mistakes, thank you! :)  
> Drabbles and headcanons and other miscelaneous brain ooze can be found on my [Tumblr](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/).


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